


Let the Right One In

by windybee



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Horror, Let the Right One In - Freeform, M/M, Murder, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-09-22 04:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 93,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9583571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windybee/pseuds/windybee
Summary: Frank is obsessed with the murder that's taken place in his neighborhood. Then he meets the new boy from next door. He's a bit weird though, and he only comes out at night.A remake of the story Let the Right One In, by John Ajvide Lindqvist.





	1. Lucky is he who has such a friend.

**Wednesday, October 21, 1981**

“What do you think this could be?” A police commissioner from upstate shook a small bag. The small crystals above the children's heads awaited a response. 

It was obviously crack, but no one dared to answer. No one wanted a cop to know they knew anything concerning that. Predominantly so if they had older siblings who ran with that crowd.

“Salt? Rocks? Sugar?” He held it high in front of his chest. Extended his arm far so the children in the back could get a better look. 

The children collectively mumbled negative answers. They didn't want the police department to think their class sat filled with a bunch of empty heads. This lesson was regarding drug identification. Although impossible to determine what specifically was in the bag, it was easy to make a fair guess. 

“What are you taught in home ec these days?” He joked, shifting his gaze to the teacher. She shrugged and gave a small laugh. 

Frank's chest felt like it was about to split open from holding his breath so long. He knew the answer. When he knew the answer, it always wanted to burst out of him. He wanted the policeman to look at him and congratulate him for being right. He knew it was a mistake, but he put his hand up anyway. 

“Yes?” The officer’s eyes brightened  as he pointed to Frank. 

“It's crack, huh?” He sighed, feeling his chest relax. 

“Sure is. How'd you know?” The police cocked his head. 

“I uh,” He felt himself become nervous as he eyed the gun on his hip. “I just read a lot, that's all.”

“That's a good choice.” He nodded his head. “If you get hooked on this stuff, you won't have much time for reading.” He shook it again. “How much do you think this bag is worth?”

Frank didn't feel the need to say anything else. Even though he knew the answer, he sat quiet. He had been looked at and praised; that's all he wanted. He let himself slip into a daydream regarding being a police officer. Carrying a gun at your hip. Being able to hold and touch it whenever you pleased. Along with mace, a baton. The walkie talkies were pretty cool too. He incessantly wanted one, but had no one to be on the other end. Imagined being the tough guy no one wanted to mess with. 

He flinched as the bell rang, signaling recess and the end of the day. He sighed, packing his books into his backpack. If only he could merely skip recess and go straight home, he’d be blissful. What's it good for anyway? 

“Fucking snitch.” Dominic stuck his finger into Frank's side. His older brother, Danny ran with the drug crowd. Dominic knew a lot of terms those guys used because of him. Dominic most likely knew exactly how much that bag was worth. Definitely new  _ what  _ was in it. But he didn't snitch, didn't talk to the cop. 

Frank fumbled with his jacket zipper as he lingered by his desk. Wondering if he'd be alright to go out to recess since the cop was here. Or if it would be better to roam the halls aimlessly or go the the library for the last fifteen minutes of school. He watched his classmates herd out onto the playground. They gathered close to the police car out front, pointing and asking questions. Dominic wouldn't dare to beat up Frank when a police officer was nearby. But someone would do something less dramatic. Trip him, push him, call him names, pinch his side.

At least he'd be safe when an officer was at the playground. 

He headed toward the bathroom across the school. No one liked to go in that one. Half of the lights were out, making half the bathroom dark. It was the biggest bathroom in the school though. Ten stalls. They wanted it to be the single bathroom on site. Campus was so large that so many students began to file complaints regarding it. Having to run across campus so they don't piss their pants. Then being tardy to class. Some older kids had started the rumor that it was haunted. Frank didn't care. Lonely, tortured souls simply needed a friend, he figured. Similar to him. He wanted a friend. Someone to talk to about things he didn't want to tell anyone else. Maybe he would talk to the ghosts.

The heavy door pushed back against his arms as he entered. The half dark side looked exceptionally menacing as of now. He sighed and made his way into a middle stall. They were his favorite. Far from bright and holding back from the dark. Fine reading light. He sat on the top of the toilet. His feet rested on the seat and pulled a thin comic book out of his backpack. It was an old issue. Got it for his birthday last year. He had read it- he guessed- a million and one times. He hoped for his birthday this year, he'd get a few new comic books. Not to be stingy or ungrateful. Just so he could have more than one thing to coast him over the twelve months he had to wait for another book. 

“Frank?” Dominic’s voice rang through the large bathroom. The heavy door creaked open. 

Frank sighed. Of course he'd followed him to the bathroom. 

“Hey, Frank. You here?” Ethan's voice stung his ears. 

Ethan was with him, the worst two in Frank's mind. Ethan was strong. When he hit Frank it felt like having a vacuum attached to his lungs. A vacuum that sucked all the air out at once. Lucas was the other one, and he wasn't so bad. He refused to hit Frank. He was too smart for that. He liked to humiliate him; make him feel small. Lucas wasn’t dumb enough to get involved in the physical stuff. The altercations that would leave evidence on Frank’s skin. Dominic was persistent in both. He enjoyed hitting and mentally hurting Frank at the moment their lone paths met. 

“Faggot!” Ethan growled. Frank could hear the smile in his voice. He made sure feet didn't show under the stall door. He gently slipped his backpack straps on. He listened to the clumsy footsteps headed toward the dark end of the bathroom. “We know you're in here!” Ethan yelled. 

They reached the last stall. One of them, most likely Ethan, hit the door with such force that it flew open and smacked the wall. Frank flinched and cautiously lowered himself back onto the floor. Trying to find some way to escape. Ethan called his name and he flinched so hard he lost his balance. Pleasantly, he hadn't fell off the toilet. He remained waiting, listening to the stalls being hit and banged on. Vibrations from the dark end stall door smashing into the walls reached his stall. He clenched his teeth so he didn't make any noise. 

“Frank,” Dominic spoke tenderly. “If you don't come out now and make it easy, we're just gonna have to wait for you after school.” Quiet, delicate footsteps came closer to him; definitely not Ethan's. “Is that what you want?”

Frank felt the need to let out the breath he had been holding, but couldn't risk letting them know he was here. Even by a simple, heavy exhale. Dominic and Ethan began to hit another stall door. They were closer now, much much closer. It swung into the wall behind it and Frank felt it in his hand. Now they had reached the stall next to him. Panic smacked his body as he realized  _ they're one stall closer to me.  _ He swallowed hard, mindfully willing them to leave him alone. He knew they weren’t going to leave until Frank had suffered. But he still hoped someone was looking out for him. A guardian angel maybe.  He flattened his palms on the walls of the stall. The pain in legs from squatting was becoming unbearable. An involuntary yelp jumped from his throat as the stall door in front of him was bent forward. The lock desperately held it shut.

“You in here, bitch?” Dominic ran his fingers falteringly on the crack of the door. Frank’s eyes deliberately followed the dark space that was his finger. Watched as it stopped above the lock and disappeared.

He took a deep breath and watched the door with wide eyes. He imagined them leaving him alone. Exiting the bathroom without another word. And he would go leave too. He'd walk out. Go home. Have a snack. Take a nap until mom got home. Do his homework. Eat dinner. Watch tv until she went to bed. Take a shower. Then go to bed. Unbothered by fear. 

The fantasy was promptly smashed with the loud bang that stung his ears. Dominic and Ethan began to beat on the door. He wanted to wrap his arms around himself. But if he removed his hands from the wall he knew he was going to slip. Fall into the toilet and get his sneakers wet. So he stay, hunched over. Waiting. Waiting for something- anything. The janitor to come in. A teacher to hear. The ground to open up and swallow Dominic and Ethan. Waiting for anything.

The door swung open. The hinges shivered, daring to fall off from the abuse. Ethan stuck his head in, smiling triumphantly. His lip sat crooked so it covered his snaggletooth. Dominic stared into Frank’s eyes. The dark brown blended in with his pupils, making his eye color look solid black. And they pierced into Frank’s own unblinking eyes.

“If you’re not going to shit, get off the pot.” Ethan stated, matter of factly, that crooked smirk spread across his face.

Dominic rushed in and grabbed Frank by the hair that hung right above his neck. He held so tight his scalp ached. Frank’s head whipped back and his legs were tore from the toilet. Elegantly, he landed on his feet. But his legs were static. Dominic swung him around so he was facing the toilet. And Frank knew what they were planning to do, sighing of relief. At least they weren’t going to kick his ass. Ethan kicked behind Frank's knees and he fell. Dominic caught him by his armpits so he didn't hit his head and pass out. It was no fun if he was unconscious. He gripped on the back of Frank’s head and pushed. His vision neared the toilet water.

Frank struggled, pushing his head back. Even though he knew once the punishment was received, he’d feel so much more relieved, he kept fighting. Spiderman wouldn’t dare surrender. When he was stuck with bad guys, he always found a way out. Spiderman always got free. The bad guys never got their way. Spiderman always lived to see the next comic issue without losing his dignity.

Frank felt the cold water engulf his face. Ethan pulled the lever down. Which made the water swirl around his head. Imbed itself in his ears and nose as he held his breath. He could hear Dominic and Ethan talking. But the water in his ears made it impossible to understand. 

What did spiderman know anyway?

Once the water had filled the toilet backup Dominic let go of Frank’s head. And he surfaced, gasping for stinging air. He let his head hang. He watched the water drip from his hair and nose back into the toilet. As he sat, he listened to them laugh and high five as they left him alone. Red droplets stained the water and fell into his mouth and he tasted blood. 

It happened at times when he got scared. His nose would start to bleed. He stood on wobbly legs, his backpack straps felt like a ton on his shoulders. Blood fell from his nose onto the bathroom floor. He made his way to the paper towels to dry his hair, leaving a trail. A paper towel crinkled too loud when he used it clean his face. He left the drops on the floor. Didn't bother to wipe it up. Left it for someone to see it and wonder if someone died. If someone was murdered here.

Because someone  _ was  _ murdered here. And for the hundredth time.

-

Michael Way, a fifty five year old man with a growing beer belly, a receding hairline, and an address unknown to the authorities stared out the subway window. Watching the surroundings of what was to be his new home pass by. New Jersey wasn’t as ugly as everyone said it would be. He thought New York was much uglier. He sighed as he decided he would enjoy his time here. That is, if he was allowed.

He craned his neck to see more buildings as the announcer spoke to the passengers, letting them know that the next stop was soon. Michael looked down at his ticket. Double checked that he was to get off at the next stop. 

“Yes, next stop, not this one,” He whispered to himself. He looked up to see if there was anyone looking at him.

No. Only a few people sat in this section. In the seats across from him and around him. He looked at a woman leaning her head on a dog sat beside her. The dog wore a service vest. Strangely, the dog looked menacing. Maybe his service was protection, who knows. A man sat with his lips pursed and his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he read the paper. Tomorrow, there would be something about him in there.

As the conversation rang in his ears still, hours later, it continued to make his hands tremble. He rested them on his knees.

_ “Is there really no other way?” _

_ “Do you really think I would expose you to such a thing if there were any other way? Do you think I’d ask you for these favors if this was the only way?” _

_ “No, but…” _

_ “There is no other option.” _

Michael just had to do it. They were right; there is no other way. There is no other way, he had to do it. And have to do it right, not mess up. He had already chosen the tree in the forest with a hollow inside and stored his bag in there. Today, he would bring the bag home and destroy it. It was what felt right. Should he burn it? Cut it up and flush it? Melt it? 

How was this even supposed to work anyway?

The subway doors hissed as they parted. Michael followed the stream of people. His legs felt like lead underneath him. They wanted to weld themselves into the platform. Not allow him to move any further. He imagined what would happen if he refused to move another inch. Would anyone approach him? Would he be left all through the night until morning until the space filled up and cleared again? Day after day. Or would someone take him away. Take him somewhere else.

He continued normally. Right leg, left leg, right leg, left leg. He began to think there could be another way. Definitely had to be another way. He had done it twice before. And messed up twice. This time he would get it right, bring back what he needed and move on. He needed to finally do a good job. He knew how wicked everything about this was, but he continued mechanically, trying to keep his mind off of it. 

His feet met the sidewalk of the path along the entrance of the forest where he stored his bag deep in a tree. His eyes fell on a school girl walking alone, humming to herself. Her small legs traveled hastily. She looked rather comfortable and confident. He school bag bounced against her hip.

_ Not her.  _ Never a child.

He continued down the sidewalk. Focused on enjoying the fresh, crisp air before it would become tainted forever by his actions.

-

Frank walked slowly through the courtyard. He cringed at the sound of the slush getting squelched under his feet. The hair around his ears was still damp. The hairs felt like they were beginning to freeze to his skin. He wiped at it, trying to remove the frost. He took a deep breath and sighed; nothing bad ever happened to him in the courtyard. Nobody from school dared to follow him home to the apartment complex and do anything bad to him while surrounded by windows. 

He grew up here and had friends before school began. Even once he started school he had friends. Up until the 5th grade where he began to get picked on seriously. Slowly, his friends grew more timid of calling him and asking him to hang out. In place of friends, Frank picked up a scrap booking hobby, a comic book collection, and kleptomania. A whirring sound filled the courtyard. A small remote control car bumped into his feet.

“Did I surprise you?” Ray smiled, holding onto the control. His red scarf covered his bottom lip. 

“Yeah. You scared me a little. That goes really fast.” He pointed to the car. 

“I know.” He sighed and remained with a close lipped smile as he stared at it. “You wanna buy it?”

“Depends on how much it is?” Frank wanted the car, but not bad enough to pay more than a hundred dollars for it.

“Two hundred bucks.” Ray said simply.

“No thanks.” Frank waved him away. “I don’t have that much money anyway.”

Ray beckoned Frank closer. He turned the car on a slope and drove it down at breakneck speed. He stopped it abruptly, tossing a bit of snow up. He picked it up and patted it gently.

“It costs $700 in the store.” He wiped a snowy glove on his pants.

“Yeah.” Frank wrung his hands together. “I saw it a couple days ago.”

Ray looked at Frank top to bottom and looked back at the car.

“How about $200. It’s brand new.” He shrugged.

“Yeah, it’s pretty cool, but…” He trailed off.

“But what?” Ray messed with the antenna coming out of the controller.

“But nothing. I just don’t want it.” Frank shrugged. “I mean, I would want it. But I don't have that much money.”

“Oh. Okay.” Ray nodded, putting the car back down on the ground again. He steered it across the courtyard and into the bushes so the wheels shook and made an unnecessary ruckus. He turned it back around and parked it about a foot away from them. “You wanna try?” He held the remote to him.

“Uh huh.” Frank nodded wildly and took it from Ray. He pulled his gloves off. 

“What’s that there?” Ray pointed at Frank’s upper lip. His finger almost came in contact with Frank's face. “Did you get hit?”

Frank wiped the dried blood off his face with his index finger. “Oh, no. I just got a bloody nose. No one hit me.” Even if he did get hit, he’d never tell Ray. Ray was three years older, and a real tough guy. It would just end in him saying something about respect and fighting back. Which Frank would respond to with ‘sure’ and ‘yup’ and ‘okay’. And that would make Ray lose respect for him. 

Frank continued to play with the car until his hands felt numb from the cold. He gave the controller back to Ray. He reached into his jacket pocket and felt the candy lying inside.

“You want a Kit Kat?” Frank asked.

“No, I don’t like those.” Ray pushed his lips up to his nose.

“Twix?” He offered.

“You have both?” Ray looked at him and smiled.

“Yeah.” Frank squeezed the candy in his pocket.

“Swiped them?” Ray sped the little car over a bump, trying to get it to hop in the air. 

“Uh huh.” Frank nodded.

“Okay. Twix?” Ray held out his hand and Frank dropped the candy in his palm.

“I'm gonna go home now. Bye.” Frank waved as he left. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay.” Ray was still trying to get the car to hop. “See you.”

Once inside, Frank laid the candy out on his bed and sorted it by type. He found an open can of soda in the fridge with a paper towel wad stuck in the opening. His mom said that would keep it from getting flat. It never worked. Luckily for him, he liked soda better when it was a little flat, especially with candy. 

He fell onto his bed on his stomach. He began flipping through a book from his comic collection. He bit into a Milky Way. He eyed his scrapbook laid in the pile. It was just a sketchbook he’d lifted from an art store. Inside contained various news clippings. Details of murderers published in the papers. He knew it was weird to keep something like that, but he found peace in it. A sense of calm always flooded him as he cut the rectangle of information out and glued to to a page, pictures and all. He sighed as the candy and soda began to make him feel sick.

He flipped through the scrapbook. Woefully, continued to finish the pile of candy even though he had lost the urge to. It just made his stomach heavy and his throat feel dry. He had two free hours until his mom got home. Once she did, they would have dinner, he’d do his homework, they would drink hot chocolate together, eat cookies out of a package, and he’d watch TV with her. Nothing good was on tonight, so he wasn’t really looking forward to that.

He flipped over onto his back and held his heavy stomach. An eerie feeling began to creep up around him. It climbed up and wrapped itself around him. He held his breath, waiting for something to happen. Something would happen now.

He let his breath out after the moment had passed and there was nothing left to do.

-

Michael sat on the bench. He held the can of halothane in his case close to his chest under his coat. The path had remained clear. Nobody had passed him the whole time he had been here. A figure grew as it came closer to him down the path. It was a boy. Late teens, he guessed. He was a good age,  _ young _ , but still good enough.  _ Had  _ _ to do it.  _ If he didn’t do it, he might as well end his own life. The person was coming closer. Michael still didn't have his plan. He was about ten feet away, the final decision needed to be made. He stood up off the bench.

“Um, sir? Could you tell me the time?” He white knuckled the case. The boy’s gaze fell onto Michael’s watch. “Oh, mine’s stopped. See?” He held it up to him, the hands remaining still.

“Uh, it's a quarter past five,” He didn’t move. Even after Michael had nodded, he stood there not moving. Michael took this chance to take a step closer. The boy obviously sensed something was off. Michael was still holding the can to his chest tightly, which he knew looked bizarre.

“What is that?” The boy asked. Michael was out of shifty ideas and he just pulled the can from the body and showed it to the boy. “What the hell  _ is  _ that?” 

“Halothane gas.” He shrugged.

“Why do you have that? Why are you just carrying it around?” The boy didn't even take a step back and Michael began to feel less sympathetic for the boys soon to come end.

“Because…” Michael studied the can’s imperfections. He ran his fingers over the foam mouthpiece. He wasn’t going to lie. He didn’t like to lie. “It’s part of my job.”

“What kind of job?” The boy asked, adjusting his stance as he began to relax a little bit.

“Are you on your way to work out?” Michael asked, pointing at the bag. 

The boy glanced down and he had his shot, finally. Both his arms shot out, his free hand gripping the back of the boy’s head and the other hand pushing the mouthpiece onto his face, covering his breathing. The boy struggled and he was strong; an obvious athlete. Michael was fine with that, he was strong too. He just held on tight and waited for the gas take effect. The boy tried to throw his head back to get Michael off him, and he wrapped his hands around Michael’s, trying to pull his fingers up off the can. He threw his body back and Michael followed, holding him down. The hissing sound from the canister filled his head like a bad migraine. The boy's body finally went limp and Michael lifted him up. 

_ Have to do it. _

He carried his body on his shoulder, the canister strapped to his head, still releasing gas. The hissing noise made the guilt inside Michael grow. He breathed hard from the exertion of carrying a muscled body. He deliberately panted more loudly to drown out the sound of the hissing canister in his ear.

With an aching back, burning arms, and sweat collecting under his coat, he finally reached the destination. With trembling hands, he set the boy down gently next to the hollow in the tree where he’d previously put his supplies. He pulled the canister off his face and unlocked the trigger; the hissing stopped. The atmosphere grew quiet and he watched the boy’s chest rise and fall slowly and steadily. He should wake up in about eight minutes, but he won’t.

Michael sat beside the body and felt a lump begin to block the inside his throat. He lifted the warm body up and hugged it against his own, feeling his body beginning to tremble all over. He kissed the boy’s cheek and forehead, feeling like he owed him some sort of peaceful end. He knew he could resist, not follow through. A comforting thought. He got up. 

“Forgive me.” He plead against the boys cheek.

In a parallel universe, he would leave the boy here. Leave him to wake up on his own in a couple minutes. Confused and scared, but that would be all, no harm done. Michael liked parallel universe him better and he wished he could be him. But he couldn’t. Now he was in a hurry and he pulled his supply bag out of the hollow and emptied it. A rope, a knife, a large funnel, and a five liter plastic jug. He set everything on the ground and looked at the unconscious body for one final memory then got to work.

-

 

**Thursday, October 22**

Linda reached over the dining room table with tears in her eyes and squeezed Frank’s hand. He hands were shaking slightly and he squeezed back.

“You are absolutely  _ not  _ allowed to go into the woods alone. Do you hear me?” Her voice was firm, but scared at the same time.

A boy around Frank’s age had been murdered in the woods behind their apartment complex yesterday. It had made the papers this morning and when his mother got home, she was just short of a wreck.

“Yeah, I hear you.” Frank sighed.

“You are not allowed to go past the yard until they’ve caught him.” She stared into his eyes. 

“You mean I can’t go to school?” He suppressed a smile.

“No, of course you're going to school. But after school you come straight here and you don’t leave the complex until I get home.” She scoffed, amused and offended at the same time that Frank was trying to make a joke out of her concern. 

“It’s not that big of a deal. The guy was older than me anyway.” Frank slouched in his chair.

The fear in her eyes was infiltrated with anger. “Do you want to be murdered? Is that what you want? Do you want to go in the woods and be killed? Do you want to get butchered?!” Tears collected on her waterline.

“I won’t go in the woods, mom. I promise.” He swallowed hard and squeezed her hand again.

“You’re my heart. If something were to happen to you…” She stroked his hand.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me.” He smiled with his lips pushed together. “Mom, how’d he do it?” Frank asked.

“What do you mean?” Her eyebrows pushed towards each other.

“The murderer. How’d he do it?” He sat up in his chair.

“How should I know? The boy was killed by some maniac with a knife. His parents’ lives are ruined.” She exclaimed.

“Are the details in the paper?” He stood up from the table.

“I can’t stand to read it.” She began rubbing her temples. He picked up the paper and began flipping through the pages. The crime filled two pages. “You shouldn’t read things like that.”

“I’m only checking something.” He started to walk away with it.

“Don’t read it. I’m serious. All that violent reading and TV is no good for you.” She waved a hand in his direction. Her eyes remained closed as she rested her head in her hands with her elbows on the table.

“I’m only checking what’s on TV.” He lied. “I wanna know what we can watch later.” Frank intended to take the paper to his room. His mother stood up clumsily and hugged him, pressing her wet cheek against his. 

“Can’t you understand how much I care about you? If something were to happen-” She sounded so sad.

“I know mom. I’m careful, though.” He hugged her back a bit and slowly extracted himself from her arms. As he turned to go to his room he wiped his mother’s tears off his cheek.

This was a great case, this was amazing. In the subway today, he knew people were talking about this headline. It might have been his imagination, but it seemed like the people there were talking more, moving more slowly than normal. He let out an airy, amazed chuckle. In the hardware store, he had swiped an incredibly alluring hunting knife that was worth $350. Went behind the display case and everything. Luckily it wasn’t locked. He had made up an excuse prematurely in case he was caught.

_ “Excuse me, sir, but I am just so afraid of the killer.” _

He figured he could have squeezed out a couple of tears, if it had gone that far. No doubt, they would have let him go. But he hadn’t been caught and the knife was hidden; wedged into the hiding place inside his bed’s box spring by the scrapbook. He lifted the mattress corner, the flap of ripped fabric still connected to the box spring and removed both items.

Frank sat on his bed and began to read all the details of the murder. A body had been found hanging from a tree by it’s feet last night around eight by a high school girl. What was she doing in the woods that late anyway? Nothing interesting, collecting pine cones probably. But why weren’t there more details about the crime? The only thing offered was a photograph of the crime scene. Police tape wrapped around a tree with a large hollow in the middle of the thick trunk. Tomorrow, there would be another picture of this same tree surrounded by candles and flowers and signs that read ‘why’ and ‘we miss you’. Frank knew how these things went. He had a scrapbook full of things like this. A picture of the boy who was killed was set next to a column of text. It was his recent yearbook picture, used to make him look extra sweet; dressed up and bright eyed. Frank thought he looked a little bit like Dominic. On the next page was a picture of the police officer who came to Frank’s classroom to talk about drugs.

Frank listened intently into the other room. His mother was doing dishes. He laid down on the bed and dug the knife from his sweater pocket, weighing it in his hand. It weighed about three times more than the kitchen knives did. The handle was shaped to fit perfectly around a hand. Had indents of grooves on the handle so the fingers wouldn't slip. 

He slid off the bed and stood in the middle of the room, holding the knife in front of him. The instrument was gorgeous, it transmitted power into his hand. He thrust it a few times in the air.  _ Some maniac with a knife killed a kid. _ The words rang in his ears as he thought about how much the victim looked like Dominic. He was about to thrust it in the air again, but stopped when he realized that someone would be able to see him from his window with the blinds open. It was dark out and the light was on in his room. He neared towards the window and looked out, but only caught his own reflection. 

The murderer.

He quickly threw the knife and the scrapbook back in the hiding place, suddenly becoming a bit scared. This was only a game. These kinds of things were fantasy. They never happened in reality. But he needed to know the details, he needed to know them now.

-

Ray sat in an armchair that fit his body cozily. A guitar magazine sat perched in his hands. He hummed to himself. From time to time he’d hold up the booklet to show Brian and Leo a picture he found interesting. They’d squint from the couch and crane their neck to see. Though neither of them cared for guitars. The naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling swung ever so slightly. It was stained with dust and sent flecks of golden light all over the room.

Ray had them sitting on pins and needles.

His mom was dating Steven who worked in the police department. He didn’t like Steven that much, actually exactly the opposite. He despised him. The oily voiced, god fearing man. But from Ray’s mom he’d hear this and that. Things Steven wasn’t supposed to tell mom. Things mom wasn’t supposed to tell Ray. Things Ray wasn’t supposed to tell Brian or Leo.

This was how he had heard about the state of the investigation of a radio store break in. Conducted by no other than he, Brian, and Leo.  _ No trace of the perpetrators _ were his mom’s exact words. They didn’t even have a description of the getaway car.

Ray and Brian were sixteen, both in their second year of highschool. Leo was nineteen and had something wrong with his head, he was scheduled to graduate this year. He had his license and drove a white truck his dad had given him. They used markers to alter the license plate before the break in. Not that it mattered though. No one had seen the car.

They stashed everything they had taken down here, in their hangout in their apartment complex basement storage space. They decided to take selling slow in the beginning. No need to raise any red flags to the police. Especially since Leo already had a record. Ray and Brian didn’t want to let Leo handle any selling anyways since he was a little…  _ slow  _ as his mom put it.

But now two weeks had gone by and the police were busy with the new murder case. They figured they could speed up selling now.

“You gonna tell us?” Brian drummed his fingers on his thigh. His thick accent he picked up from living in New York for twelve years added extra intimidation to him.

“Two fretboards.” Ray held up the magazine to him. “You could tune them differently. Imagine the duality of that.”

“Hey,” Brian snapped his fingers. “Earth to Ray. Let’s hear it.”

“What? The murder?” He asked, scoffing sarcastically.

“Yes!” Leo exclaimed, beginning to feel frustrated. Ray bit his lower lip and lifted his hand to his chin, pretending to think it over. “How’d it happen?” He leaned his body forward, folding in the middle. 

“Sure you wanna hear it?” Ray droned. He set the magazine on the coffee table. “It’s pretty scary.”

“So what?” Leo scoffed and crossed his arms. 

Leo did his best to look tough, but Ray saw a flash of concern glaze his eyes. You didn't have to do much to scare him. Make an ugly face. Talk in a funny voice. Not agree to cut it out. 

One Halloween Ray and Brian went to pick up Leo in full zombie makeup and outfit. Which resulted in a bruised eye under Brian’s blue eye shadow. They both were extra careful about scaring Leo from that point forward. Now he was sitting up in his seat with his chin jutted forward, like he was ready to hear anything.

“Alright. So, this wasn’t your normal murder. They found this guy hung up in a tree.” Ray folded his hands together.

“What do you mean? He got hung?” Brian asked.

“Yeah, he was hanging. But not by his neck.” Ray shook his head and pointed to his own neck. “By his feet. He was left hanging upside down by his feet.”

“What the fuck?” Brian furrowed his brow. “You don’t die from that.” Ray looked at Brian like he had made an interesting point.

“No, that’s true. You don’t. But his neck was cut open.  _ That’ll _ kill you. His whole neck sliced open.” He drug his finger across his neck to show the path of a knife. “In a deep, straight line.”

“But why was he hung like that?” Leo held his hand at his neck as if to protect it.

“Well what do you think?” Ray asked.

“I don’t know.” Leo shook his head quickly.

“Let me tell you something strange.” Ray sat up straighter in his chair and cleared his throat. “When you slice someone’s neck they die, right? And you’d expect a lot of blood, right?” Both Brian and Leo nodded. Ray paused to draw in more air. “But the ground underneath him- where he was hanging. Had no blood. Just a few drops. And he had to have spilled liters of blood, hanging like that.” The basement sat silent while Brian and Leo stared vacantly.

“What if he was murdered somewhere else then just brought there by the killer?” Brain asked.

“But why would the killer bother to hang him?” Ray asked. “Normally when you’ve killed somebody you wanna get rid of the body.

“He could just be a sick fuck.” Brian raised his eyebrows.

“Maybe you’re right.” Ray breathed out. “But I think it’s something else. You ever been to the butcher shop?” Brian and Leo nodded. “Seen what they do with the pigs? Before they cut them up, they have to drain all their blood out. You know how they do that? They have to hang them upside down from a hook. And cut their throats.”

“So you’re saying the guy wanted to butcher him? Like he's a cannibal?” Brian’s eyebrows pressed together, still unsure.

“Oh?” Leo's brain lit up. He looked uncertainly from Brian to Ray. Then to Brian again to see if they were just messing with him. Brian looked completely serious.  

“They do that with the pigs?” Brian asked, swallowing uncomfortably.

“Yeah, how’d you think they did it?” Ray nodded.

“That it was some kind of a machine that did it.” He began to squirm, uncomfortable with this new knowledge. 

“And you think that’d be better for the pigs?” Ray asked.

“No, but…” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Are they alive then? When they’re hanging up like that?” 

“Yeah,” Ray sighed. “They’re alive. Kicking around and screaming.” 

Leo stood up and paced a few steps before sitting back down.

“But that doesn’t make sense? If he was going to butcher him, there would be blood everywhere.” Brian said.

“You said he was getting butchered, not me.” Ray shook his head.

“Oh, well you got a better idea?” Brian threw his hands up.

“I think he was after the blood.” Ray sank back down in his chair. “I think the only reason he killed the guy in the first place was to get his blood. And that’s where it all went.”

“To drink it? Or why?” Brian picked at a scab on the knuckle of his thumb.

“Maybe. I don’t know why.” Ray sighed and picked his magazine back up again.

The air grew stale with silence as the only noise was the sound of Ray flipping pages and Brian tapping his feet. Murder talk hung heavy in the air. Ray looked at Leo, who was sitting with his head down, looking at his hands in his lap. He quickly sensed Ray’s gaze on him and looked up, meeting his eyes. He had tears in his eyes.

“Do they die fast?” He blinked slowly, willing the tears to go away. “The pigs?”

Ray met him with equal seriousness.

“No, they don’t.”

-

“Can I go out for a while?” Frank pulled the laces on his shoes tight.

“No.” His mom set down a folded towel in the basket next to her.

“Just to the courtyard?” He knotted his shoe.

“Fine. And nowhere else. Understand?” She threw a stern look at him.

“Uh huh, sure.” He nodded, pulling his other laces tight. “When dinner’s ready I don’t want you to call for me, by the way.” He grunted as he knotted his shoelaces together.

“Got your hat?” She pushed the stack of towels down,

“Uh huh.” He felt for the knife in his pocket.

“On your head?”

“No, on my feet.” He pulled the hat onto his head. Before she could scold him he slipped through the door.

He looked at his watch. A quarter past seven. He had almost an hour before the show he wanted to watch with his mom began. Ray and the others were probably down in the basement. Wouldn't dare go anywhere near there. He liked Ray, but his friends could get scary ideas. Especially if they had been sniffing or smoking.

He decided to go down to the playground in the middle of the yard. He sat down on a tire swing that was connected to one of the two large trees that were sometimes used as a soccer goal. He swung gently to and fro. This place at night was one of his favorites. Lighted windows surrounded him, but it was just him, alone, in the dark. Safe and alone at the same time. He took the knife out of the holster and pressed it to his thumbnail slightly. A microscopic slit was cut into it so quick that it scared him a bit. This was the sharpest knife he’d ever held. He admired the shiny blade as the moon reflected off of it. He got up and stood in front of the tree, talking to it.

“What are you looking at, you fucking idiot? Do you want to die?” He bared his teeth as he carefully drove the knife into the bark. Slowly as not to damage the fine tip. The tree didn’t answer. “That’s what happens if you even fucking look at me.” He turned the knife so a piece of bark flew from the tree, landing far away.

He heard a sound and quickly stopped, lowering the knife to his hip. He lifted the blade to his eyes and used it as a mirror to slyly look behind him. It reflected the jungle gym and someone standing on it. Someone who hadn’t been there before. The blurry contour of their body shone against the clean steel. He lowered the knife and turned to look at the person, scared it was the killer. 

He let out the breath he was holding. Not the killer, a child.

He took another step and suddenly grew scared. Of what? He was on his way towards the boy with a knife firmly held in his hand. Why wasn’t he the scared one? He stopped and slid the knife back into its holster, sliding it into his jacket pocket.

“Hi.” He said without moving. The boy didn’t answer. Frank was close enough now to see that he had dark hair that almost reached his shoulders. Big, glassy, green eyes that reflected the streetlight. Eyes wide open, calmly looking back at Frank. His white hands rested on the railing. “I said hi.” He spoke louder.

“I heard you.” He said.

“Well, why didn’t you answer?”

The boy shrugged. His voice was not super low like he had expected by how intimidating his gaze was. He sounded like someone his own age, also nasally. There was something strange about him. Black hair. Heart shaped face. Pointy nose. He looked very mature, a lot older. Very… pretty. But there was something else. He had no hat on, and no jacket. Only a thin, dark blue sweater. 

“What are you doing?” He nodded his head in the direction of the tree.

“Practicing.” Frank blushed, and hoped he couldn’t tell in the dark.

“For what?” His face remained calm.

“For if the murderer comes along.” Frank shrugged.

“What murderer?” He bit down, flexing his jaw. The bone jutted out. 

“The one who killed that guy in the woods yesterday.” Frank pointed at the treeline behind him. 

The boy sighed and looked at the moon, then back down at Frank. “Are you scared?”

“No, but a murderer. It’s good if like- if you- can defend yourself.” He stammered. “Do you live here?”

“Yes.” He nodded once.

“Where?” Frank asked.

“Right here.” The boy gestured to the rails under him. “Back here in the jungle gym.”

“Very funny.” Frank’s mouth lifted in a small smile. 

“Over there,” He gestured to the place where Frank lived. “Next to you.”

“How do you know where I live?” Frank’s feet began to feel cold from standing in one spot for so long.

“I've seen you in the window.” He said simply.

Frank’s cheeks grew hot. “I um-” 

While he was trying to think of something to say, the boy jumped down from the jungle gym. He landed in front of him. A drop of about eight feet.  _ He must do gymnastics or something like that. _ He was a little bit taller than Frank, and about as thin. The blue sweater hung a bit loose around his body, but still fit him. His eyes were enormous. Almost glowed green in the dark against his pale face. He held up one hand in front of him as if he was warding something off. His fingers were long and slender like twigs.

“I can’t be your friend.” He said, staring into Frank's eyes. He lowered his hand. “Just so you know.

“What?” Frank crossed his arms and felt the contours of the knife holster through his jacket.

The boy’s mouth pulled up in a half smile. The edges of his teeth were exposed. “Do you need a reason? I’m just telling you how it is. So you know.”

“Yeah alright. What makes you think I wanna be your friend anyway?” Frank asked rudely as the boy turned to go back inside. He watched him glide towards the door. “You must be pretty stupid.”

The boy stopped in his tracks and stood still for a moment before turning back around and walking back to Frank quickly. “What did you say?”

“I  _ said _ , you must be pretty stupid.” He wrapped his arms more tightly around himself and looked at the ground. “To say something like that.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” The boy asked, condescendingly, leaning closer to Frank with his arms crossed.

“Yeah.” Frank nodded.

“I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. How it has to be.” He said, compassion in his voice.

They were standing about a foot and a half apart and a strange smell was emitting from the boy. About a year ago Frank’s dog, Lucky, had gotten an infection in one paw, which eventually led to him having to be put down. On Lucky’s last day, Frank had stayed home from school and laid down by the sick dog for hours and said goodbye. The boy had smelled like Lucky. Frank scrunched up his nose.

“Is that… smell coming from you?” He immediately regretted asking. 

“I guess so.” He sighed.

“Aren’t you cold?” Frank looked at his own fingers. The tips reddened as they began to feel numb from the cold.

“No.” The boy shook his head. 

“Why not?” Frank cocked his head slightly to one side.

The boy frowned and for a second looked much older. Like an old man about to cry. Frank's breath hitched. Just a flash, then his face changed back. Maybe just because it was dark it seemed that way. 

“I guess I’ve forgotten how.” He whipped around. His hair bounced slightly as he jogged to the doors. 

Frank remained where he was, watching him. When he reached the heavy front door, Frank expected him to open it with both hands and use his whole body. But the boy opened it with one hand. And opened it so hard it banged into the wall, bounced, then closed behind him. 

Frank sank his hands into his jeans pockets. He felt sad thinking about the makeshift coffin his dad had made. The crucifix Frank had made and drove into the earth as a headstone. He thought he ought to make another one soon. A better one.

-

Michael sat in a booth in a cloudy cafe. He would never understand why it was still allowed to smoke in the same place people would eat. Even though he wasn’t eating, his stomach still felt too sick to be anything but vacant of solids, he still felt annoyed. The group of drunks sitting together at a table, yelling, smoking, and drinking was  _ very  _ annoying. He sighed and shifted in his seat, lifting his glass of whisky to his lips, trying to focus again on his book.

Finally, he had fell deep into it again, the only earthly sense he still had at the moment was the wetness of the whisky coming from the lip of the bottle where his thumb laid, plugging it. That was, until there was a shift in weight as someone sat across from him in the booth. He thought about what would happen if he just kept reading, would they just go away?

“Hello,” The man said, the scent of alcohol wafting into Michael’s face. “I’m Jerry. I was just wondering if you wanted to join us?” Michael looked up and recognized him as a man from the drunkard table.

“No, I’m alright here.” Michael poured more whiskey into his own glass. “You want something? It’s on me.” He was a bad person, the least he could do was buy some man a drink.

“Of course, thank you. I’ll have what you’re having.” He waved his hand for the waiter to come over and ordered himself a glass of whiskey. Michael showed no signs of wanting conversation, lowering his eyes back down to his book. “Cold weather. Could snow soon.”

“Mm.” Michael kept his lips closed.

“You live around here?” Jerry said a thanks to the waiter as he set down a glass in front of him. Michael looked into space, looking like he had never thought about that question before. Jerry couldn’t tell if the slow nodding was an answer or part of an inner dialogue. “So, what do you do to pass the time?” He moved on.

“I uh,” He sighed, taking a drink from his glass. “Help out a little.”

“I see,” Jerry drank from his glass too. “With what sort of thing.”

Michael looked into Jerry’s eyes, spellbound. He stared like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. A flicker of emptiness in Michael’s eyes as he looked at Jerry sent a shiver from his neck to the end of his tailbone. Michael rubbed his hands over his eyes and clumsily pulled dollars out of his pocket as he stood up from the table. 

“Excuse me,” He slid his book off the table and into his hands. “I have to…” He rushed out of the cafe, leaving the half full bottle of whiskey.

“Okay, thanks for the…” Jerry trailed off, seeing that Michael was long gone. “Don’t mind if I do.” He pulled the bottle by the neck and took it over to his own table.

-

Frank moved away from where he was standing in front of the jungle gym and into the sandbox. He sat on  the concrete curb of it and kept an eye on the boy’s window to see if the blinds had been pulled up. Even the bathroom window looked like it had been covered from the inside. The frost on their windows looked darker than anyone else’s.

The blinds had sat drawn since before they moved in and Frank hadn’t seen them be pulled up yet. They were very strange. On the mailboxes, there was no name plate for them. It sat empty. The name that was placed there before, Gomez, was there so long it left dark contours against the silver background. But that was it. There wasn’t even a note in place of the missing letters. 

He pulled his rubix cube out of his pocket and avoided touching the knife holster. It creaked as he turned it since it was only a copy. Even though they weren’t super expensive, he didn’t want to pay $25 for an original. The original was much more supple, but sat in a well guarded toy store.

Two sides had been completed, red and yellow. The blue side only a little bit out of place. He couldn’t turn it anymore without breaking up one of the two completed sides. He stared at the cube, waiting for it to give him an answer, to tell him how to solve it. When it didn't, he pushed it up to his forehead, as if to delve into its interior. Still, no answer. He sighed and slid it back into his pocket. He stood up and brushed off his pants as he began walking to the front door. Figuring it was about dinner time. 

As he reached the front, he noticed a man he had never seen before coming to the door at the same time. The man was smoking a cigarette prior to going inside. He had dropped it in the snow and carefully twisted his toe over it. Frank jogged up the two flights of stairs, becoming somewhat scared when he noticed the man had followed him up both flights. His mind went straight to the murderer. Even though he knew that was preposterous. The murderer wouldn’t kidnap him in his building, right? As he reached his door he looked at the nameplate on the door next to his, hoping for something there. But there was nothing, just the same contours of  _ Gomez  _ over the empty silver strip. 

The man that Frank thought was following him pressed the nameless door open, tightly smiling at him as he slid inside. His mouth was small, his lips looked like they were pressed together. When Frank nodded and smiled back, the man didn’t uncurl his lips, which made him look threatening. His eyes looked like they were begging for something. Before Frank could ask how he was doing, he shut the door behind him.

That man was probably the boy’s dad. Granted, Frank had never seen a real life drug addict so close up, but that man looked sick. He looked suspicious. They were probably a very… strange kind of family. Drug addicts.

_ No wonder he was so strange. _

-

“Never again,” Michael whispered, holding back tears. “No matter what you say.”

“Mikey…” He spoke softly.

“No, I- just no. I can't.” Michael shook his head, holding his hand over his mouth.

“I’ll die.” His voice carried through the whole room. 

“Then _die_.” Michael lowered his voice even more.

“Do you mean that?” He looked sadly at him, holding his folded hands in his lap.

“No,” Michael shook his head quickly. “I don't. I don't mean that. But you could do it yourself.”

“I’m still too weak.”

“You aren’t weak.” He laughed nervously. “You and I both know goddamn well, you aren’t fucking weak.”

“Too weak for  _ that _ , Mikey.” He huffed.

“Well, then I don’t know what to tell you. But I’m not going to do it again. It’s so horrible, so, so- such a nightmare.” Michael stammered. “I can't manage to do it ever again.”

“I know.” He said sadly.

“No, don’t give me that shit. You  _ don’t  _ know. It’s different for you, it's…” Michael held out his hands. 

“What do you know about how it is for me?” His voice began to rise.

“At least you’re-” Michael started to yell too. “At least you  _ get  _ something out of it! What do I get? Nothing! The only person who benefits from this is  _ you _ !” He spat. “And you fucking know it, just as well as I do.” He pointed a trembling finger to him weakly. “You're the only one who gains from it. And you never get your hands dirty.”

“Do you think I like it?” He shot up from the floor. His hands were clenched in fists at his side. “Do you think I take any pride in it? Do you?!” He stomped. “This isn't any  _ fun _ for me! I haven't had fun doing any of this. I take no pride in any of this. It is a never ending nightmare! Stop telling me how awful this is when you don't even know the half of it! It's inconsiderate.” 

“Sure.” Michael nodded. “Well, I’m still not doing it again. Maybe you’ve had other who have helped you who have been better at this than me.” The boy was silent. Michael began to feel dizzy and drained of energy. “Have you?” He slowly stumbled backwards to the couch. 

“Yes.” He sat back down on the floor and began running his fingers over the tile.

“I see.” Michael sat down in the firm couch. “Were they any better at helping?”

The boy shrugged. He kept his gaze down. “Some. Men who were made for the job. You were not made for it. But you are not the worst. By far. There have been worse.”

“Ah, okay.” He yawned. 

“Mikey?” He said softly. “I love you.” He looked up at him. 

“You only love me to the extent I help you stay alive. You don't love me.” Michael groaned, closing his eyes.

“Yes, isn’t that what love is? You love who keeps you alive.” He cocked his head to the side. “Do you love me even a little bit?”

“I did. I really did love you, kiddo. But please, don't ask me about now.” Michael breathed deeply, warding off the churning feeling in his stomach. “Would you still love me if I never did it again?” His eyed flicked to the boy’s, awaiting a truthful answer,

“Yes,” The boy nodded his head without hesitation. “I already love you, regardless.”

“Ugh,” Michael somehow felt sicker. “I don’t believe you.”

The room fell silent and they both let the words hang in the air. “Mikey?” The boy spoke. “I can manage for a few more days, but after that…”

“Make sure you find out what love really is by then.” Michael slid down and laid on the couch. He curled up into himself. 

-

 

**Saturday, October 24**

Frank sat on the edge of the sandbox again. He sat in the freezing dark, awaiting the sun to come up. He liked waking up early. Especially during the fall when the air was cold and crisp. And the sky was still dark. Sneaking out of the apartment was his favorite part. He would squeeze the middle hinge so the door didn’t squeak. He didn’t have school today, but he still wanted to be up early. He noticed that the light in the boy’s apartment was on. The light spilled from the blinds. Except for the bathroom window. Which was still a dark square. No light in there. 

He pulled out his rubix cube and started twisting again, ruining the blue edge. The creaking sounded was amplified against the cold air. The complex door opened and he flinched. He watched the boy glide over to the monkey bars. He sat still, keeping his composure. The flicker of worry licked his stomach, but he didn’t move.

“You here again?” The boy scoffed. His voice projected across the playground. 

Frank looked slowly, pretending to be surprised, let a few seconds pass. “You again.”

“Why are you sitting here?” The boy jumped up onto the monkey bars, perching himself on top.

“Why are you up there? ” Frank turned away from him. 

“I came here to be by myself.” The boy stared at Frank.

“Me too.” He drew out the creak as he turned the cube.

“Then go home.” The boy dropped down from the bar, hanging by thin fingers. Then swung himself back up and around. His legs shot through the opening of two bars. He hung upside down, the back of his knees wrapping around a bar.

“ _ You _ go home.” Frank turned another side. “I've lived here longer.”

He felt a sense of accomplishment. He told the boy how it was. And he'd finished the white side. He continued to move blocks at random, now that none of the other colors would glow like the white in the dark. He looked at the boy who was twisting his body around the monkey bars.  _ Definitely a gymnast.  _

He stood up on the top of one and looked like he was about to jump down. Frank cringed. Readied his body to see the boy hurt himself. But the boy jumped down and landed softly as a cat, not making any sound. He pulled himself back up.

“Do you like the night time? And early morning when it’s dark?” The boy’s voice hitched as he flipped his body upside down again.

“Yeah, I do. Or else I wouldn’t be out here in the dark. Don’t you like night?” Frank sighed as he squinted at the cube. He wished for his eyes to adjust more so he could see the colors.

“It has grown on me.” He held his hands out to the ground and let his legs off the bars, catching himself in a handstand before standing upright. “What’s that?” The boy dropped his feet. He walked over to him.

“This?” Frank held it up.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“You don’t know?” The cube remained in the air.

“No.” The boy shook his head.

“It's a Rubix Cube.” He shrugged, pulling it back into his lap.

“What did you say?” He craned his neck to point his ear more towards Frank.

“ _Ru-bix_ _Cube_.” He overennounciated. 

“And what’s that?” He crossed his arms.

“It’s just a toy.” He shrugged.

“A puzzle?” The boy asked.

“Yeah,” He held it up to the boy again. “Want to try?”

“How do you do it?” The boy sat on the edge next to where Frank was sitting on the sandbox.

“Like this.” Frank demonstrated. “Just turn it. Make the sides one color.” He held it out to him. The boy took it and began examining it from all sides. “Can you see the colors?”

“Naturally.” The boy said.

Frank thought he talked funny.  _ Naturally.  _ No one his age talked like that. But it didn't sound out of place coming from the boy. He carried himself in a different way. Like an adult. Maybe he  _ was  _ older than him. Even though he looked small. His thin white throat jutted out of his blue sweater. It merged with a sharp jawline and light, smooth complexion. Like a mannequin. The wind blew in their direction and Frank held his breath. Not even daring to breathe from his mouth.

The mannequin stank.

It was worse than old sweat. It smelt like an infection. Frank didn’t know what else to compare it to. He thought he smelled like an infected wound. And the boys hair was just as bad. Frank looked closer while he was completely absorbed by the cube. He noticed that his hair was completely caked together and fell around his face in matted tufts and clumps. As if he had put glue or mud in it.

As he was looking closer at the boy, studying him, he was overcome with the urge to breathe. And as he inhaled he smelled him, he had to suppress the urge to gag. He got up and walked away. Couldn't stand to be near him. The boy didn't look like he minded. 

“Hey, I’m gonna go home now.” Frank stood in front of him.

“Okay.” He held out the cube after a moment, keeping his eyes on it.

“You can keep it until tonight, if you want. I can come back then.” Frank backed up, not taking it.

“No.” He said after thinking for a moment.

“Why not?” Frank asked.

“I might not be here tonight.” He said sadly.

“Oh, until tomorrow then?” Frank offered.

The boy thought about it for a moment. “Okay.” He smiled, baring his small teeth.

“Okay,” Frank was amazed at how white his teeth were compared to how dirty the rest of him was. “Bye, see you later.”

“Goodbye.” The boy resumed turning the cube.

-

Frank awoke from a nap around ten in the morning. Three thick bundles of advertising catalogs sat on the kitchen table. They’d arrive every Saturday morning. Mom would help fold and separate them into packages. Usually four catalogs each. Four hundred and eighty packages total to hand out. He got about $30 a month to do it. Which, wasn’t bad. Not bad at all.

It helped that there were so many people living in his apartment complex. He could get about a hundred out of each building. The whole round took about three hours including the time it took to come back to his own home and load up on more packages. The packets had to all be out by Tuesday. But Frank did them all on Saturday, just to get it over with. 

By eleven thirty, all the packages were folded. He began setting off onto his rounds. There was no point in just throwing them in the garbage can anyway. They always called up and checked on him. Made random tests. They had made that perfectly clear when he’d signed up for the job. Maybe it was just a bluff, but he didn't want to take the chance of getting caught and losing the job. 

He got by by pretending he was an agent on a secret mission. His job was to spread propaganda against the enemy occupying the country. He sneaked through the guarded hallways. Past enemy soldiers who would pose as old ladies with dogs. Or he would pretend that each building was a hungry animal and could only be nourished by virgin flesh, made to look like advertisement packets. And he’d feed the beast through its hundred mouths. One by one. Half way through his second hour, he’d usually just be doing the work mechanically. His legs and arms would move on their own. Now, he’d be a robot delivering commercials. 

Done for the day, with one packet left. He dropped it into his own mail slot. $7 richer. He opened the door, picked up the packet, and threw it in the garbage. He turned back around and went into the courtyard, not exactly knowing what to do now.

Ray walked outside the buildings, probably headed toward the basement, but stopped when he saw Frank.

“Hey.” He waved. Frank waved back. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing really.” Frank shrugged. “Just finished delivering fliers and stuff.”

“Do you get paid for that?” Ray pulled his hood up onto his head. 

“Some. Seven dollars each time. Thirty a month.” Frank stuffed his gloved hands into his jacket pockets. 

Ray nodded. “Wanna buy a walkman?”

“Don’t know. What kind?” He began chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“It’s a sony. Five bucks.” Ray raised his eyebrows. “Brand new. In the box, with headphones.”

“I don’t have money on me right now.” Frank shrugged. 

“I thought you said-” Ray furrowed his eyebrows.

“I get the money at the end of the week.” Frank rocked on his heels.

“Oh, that’s okay. If you want it now you can have it, just pay me when you get the money.” Ray bargained.

“Sure.” Frank nodded.

“Cool, five in a week?” Ray smiled.

“Five in a week.” Frank repeated.

“Do you have tapes?” Ray asked.

“No.” Frank shook his head. 

“Oh, you can borrow some of mine. If you want.” He offered. “I have misfits and black flag if you’re into that.”

“Oh, yeah! I am.” Frank smiled and watched Ray walk toward the basement. “Ray?” He stopped him and he turned around. “Do you know how that guy got killed in the woods?”

“Oh, yeah.” Ray nodded. “He was strung upside down from a tree and had his throat slit.”

“He wasn't… stabbed?” He cringed, reaching up to touch his throat. “Like in the chest or anything?”

“No,” Ray scoffed. “Just his throat. Be right back, I’m gonna go get the walkman..”

“Okay.” Frank nodded.

He sat on the swing and rocked slowly back and forth, watching the sky as he waited for Ray to bring him the walkman. Tonight or maybe tomorrow he would see the boy and get his cube back. He looked up at their window. Blinds still drawn. Did anyone really live there? What did they do there all day? Did she have any friends at all?

Probably not.

-

“Tonight-” The boy crossed his arms, standing tall in front of Michael.

“What have you been doing?” Michael swallowed hard.

“I took a shower.” He shrugged.

“You don’t normally…” Michael eyed him up and down. He had noticed the smell long ago, but had been too detached to do anything about it or even feel bothered by it.

“Mikey, tonight you have to…” He pleaded with his eyes.

“No, I told you. I’ll do anything except that. Say the word- I’ll do it!” He was frantic. “But not that. I can’t handle any more. Here! Here’s a knife, okay?” Michael pulled his knife holster off his jeans and held it in front of the boy.

“Stop, please.” The boy softly took it from his hands.

“Why did you take a shower?” Michael crossed his arms.

“I’ll do it myself, it’s okay. I’m sorry I pushed you so far.” The boy twisted the knife in his hands.

“You had to shower for that?” He scoffed.

“Mikes…” He sighed.

“I would help you if it was anything but that. But I’m sorry, I can’t. Anything else.” Michael fidgeted with his hands.

“I forgive you. It’s my own fault for expecting such a thing for so long.” He slid the knife back into the holster.

“Be careful,” He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I was careful.

-

Frank sighed while he read over the map of Sweden again, trying to remember. The names meant nothing to him. Simple clusters of letters to memorize. Recite to mom. Fill out a photocopied map for a test on Friday. It gave him satisfaction to look in the geography book and see that there were cities and rivers where he had marked them in,

_ Öland, Tome, Siljan, Störsjon, Djurgården, Sveg, Ramberget…  _

He would take it to mom and recite the map from left to right. And she would tell him he did a good job and he would feel proud. But for what?

It was meaningless.

The places didn't mean anything to him. As far as he was concerned, they didn’t exist. Sveg? When would he ever find himself in Sveg? It was just a black dot on a white space to him. 

School. It was just school. They told you to do a lot of nothings and you’d do them. No questions asked. The whole thing was invented so teachers could hand out copies. It didn’t mean anything. You might as well write spit, bubblejizz, or tippidflax on the blanks and it would have equal meaning. 

The only difference would be that his teacher would tell him that it’s wrong. That those places didn’t exist. That it wasn’t the correct name. Then she would point to the map and say ‘Look, here it says Sveg, not Spit.’ Pretty weak argument since someone had just pulled a sound out of his mouth and decided to call the land that sound. Then someone wrote it down in a geography book. Nothing spoke for being true. Maybe the earth really was flat and they kept that a secret for some reason. 

Frank got up from his desk and stretched while he slid his geography paper back into his folder. It was after seven now. Had the boy gone outside? He said he’d be there. Frank cupped his hands over his face and looked out the window to get a better look at the playground. It looked like something was moving down on the playground. He slipped his jacket on and pushed his feet into his shoes, going into the living room.

“Going out for a while.” Frank noticed she was knitting.

“Again? Don’t I need to test you on your map?” She looked behind her, craning her neck above the couch.

“No, we can do that later.” He pulled his laces tight and began knotting them.

“Sweden this time isn’t it?” She asked. “Name me a city.”

“Tippidflax.” Frank grinned to himself.

“What is that?” She furrowed her eyebrows.

“I don’t know.” He opened the door.

“You don’t  _ know _ ? Shouldn’t you b-”

“Yeah. Sure.” He left quick, stuffing his hat into his coat pocket. Halfway to the park, his eyes had grown accustomed enough to the dark that he could see the boy sitting at the table made from cement. Wearing the same blue sweater, but his hair didn’t look so matted. “Hey there.” He vowed to never say ‘hey there’ again, it sounded so dumb. 

“Come over here.” The boy stood up.

“Okay,” Frank went to where he was. He sat next to him and drew air into his nose. He didn't stink.

“Do I smell better today?” He asked. Frank’s cheeks felt hot. “Thanks for lending this to me.” He handed him back his Rubix cube.

“Did you take it apart?” Frank blurted, amazed that all sides were one solid color.

“What do you mean?” He brushed the bench seat with his nails lightly.

“Like… did you take it apart? And put the pieces back in the right place?” He turned it in his hand, searching for loose blocks.

“Can you do that?” He craned his neck to see the cube.

“You must have taken it apart.” He felt all the blocks- none were loose. Unbelievable.

“No.” He shook his head.

“But you’ve never seen one of these before?” He ran his fingers over the blocks again, wiggling them, searching for a single loose one.

“No.” He sighed. “It was fun. Thanks.”

“How long did it take you?” He held it up in the light. “To finish.”

“Several hours. If I did it again I could probably go faster.” He smiled with his lips slightly parted.

“So cool.” Frank breathed out.

“It isn’t so hard.” Gerard shrugged. He turned toward Frank. His pupils were so large that they almost took up the whole iris, the lights from the building reflected back into his dark eyes. Looking like a distant city in his head,

Frank cleared his throat before he spoke. “How old are you?”

“What do you think?” The boy pulled at a loose thread hanging from the cuff of his sleeve.

“Fifteen or sixteen.” Frank said, very unsure.

“Do I look it?” He looked into his eyes, catching him off guard.

“Yeah. Or-no. But…” He struggled.

“I’m twelve.” He said.

“Twelve?!” Frank didn’t believe it. He was probably younger than he was since Frank was turning thirteen soon. “What month were you born?”

“I don’t know.” He looked back down.

“You don’t? Then when do you celebrate it? Wouldn’t your mom know?” He kept looking at the boy’s face.

“I don’t celebrate it.” He sighed. “My mother is dead.”

“Oh, sorry.” Frank ran his fingers along the cold seat. “How’d she die?”

“I don’t know.” He mumbled.

“Doesn’t your dad know?” His mind flew to the image of the sad looking man.

“No.” He said it quickly, his mouth shutting immediately.

“So you don’t get any presents or anything?” Frank looked into his lap.

The boy looked at Frank and Frank immediately looked back into his eyes. The boy scooted closer, the fog of his frozen breath hitting him in the face, smelling sweet. He inhaled more. The city in his head extinguished and left behind black marble sized holes.  _ He’s so sad. So very sad.  _

“No,” His voice was stern. “I never get any presents ever.” Frank nodded swiftly, still looking into his eyes. Nothing else mattered except for the boy's dark eyes and their breaths mingling, then dissipating in front of them. “Do you want to give me a present?”

“Yeah.” Frank gulped. His voice wasn’t even a whisper. More of an exhalation. The boy’s face was close. His sharp cheekbones so prominent in his vision. So close to Frank’s own cheek.

That’s why he didn’t see his eyes change. How they narrowed and took on another expression. He didn’t see the green glow he’d seen the night before. Didn’t see how the boy’s upper lip drew back and exposed his teeth. Revealed a pair of fangs that hung down from his gum line. They shone in the moonlight, wet with with saliva. He only saw his cheek. And when the boy was nearing his neck, Frank reached his hand up and stroked the boy’s cheek. 

The boy froze for a moment, then pulled back. His eyes resumed their former, darker shape. The city was back. 

“Why did you do that?” He gasped.

“S-sorry, I don’t-”

“What did you do?” The boy sounded nervous.

“I don’t…” He looked down at the source of pain in his other hand. He’d been squeezing the cube so hard, the corners left imprints in his hand. He outstretched it to the boy. “Do you want this?”

“No,” He slowly shook his head. “It’s yours.”

“Okay.” Frank whispered. Unable to say anything else. “What's your name?”

“Gerard.” His voice sounded tired.

“I’m Frank.” He said quietly.

“I have to be…” He looked around restless. Like there was something he was looking for that he couldn't find. “Going now. Goodbye.” He slipped through the jungle gym and fell onto the ground smoothy. 

“See you tomorrow, Gerard?” Frank watched him scurry away.

“Um,” He looked up at his window then back down and smiled. Frank thought he saw two teeth on either side unnaturally longer than the other. “Yes.” He turned and kept going. Past the front doors and out to the street.

Frank twisted the cube. Broke up the unity.  _ No, doesn't feel right.  _ He put it back, wanting to keep it perfect. At least for a while.

-

Gerard sat hugging his knees on the cold concrete under the bridge. His eyes were narrowed and glowing, teeth out and ready. He’d heard the men coming from over a mile away. Laughing, joking, talking nonsense about nothing. He began to feel annoyed, the cave in his stomach growing bigger every second. He groaned in pain. He read the abundant graffiti on the wall adjacent to him. Immediately he'd found his favorite. 

_ Whoever you are, I love you.  _ It read in cursive in thin, red paint. 

_ Lets fuck.  _ It read underneath in harsh, dripped black paint.

He wondered what it was like to love someone so much it would drive you to write it on a wall underneath a wet bridge. Had it been a part of him before? Was he stripped of it? Was it the flicker of a break from the hunger he had felt when the boy, Frank, had stroked his cheek? Nonsense. He would never feel love again. Monsters don’t get to love.

“Help me.” He cried out in a weak voice, noticing the lone man begin to walk past the bridge.

“Oh?” He froze and jerked around to face Gerard. “Hey. Are you hurt?” He came closer, his arms slowly reaching out.

“Yes. Please, help me.” Gerard begged, letting his body lie limp on the ground.

“Is it your back?” The man knelt down. “Or your neck?” He touched Gerard’s arm.

“No, no. Please carry me away from here.” Gerard pulled the man closer, reaching for his neck, wrapping his arms around him.

“Oh, dear.” He sighed. Gerard could hear his heart fluttering. “You don’t weigh a thing, Let’s get you to a phone.” He began walking, carrying Gerard out of the bridge.

“Okay.” Gerard cried.

He wouldn’t get far. 

The man suddenly felt a pain in his throat. He wanted to reach up and wave it away, thinking it was a bee sting, but he couldn’t risk dropping the child. Stupidly, he tried to turn his head to examine it even though he naturally couldn’t see his own throat at that angle. Gerard’s head was in the way anyway. His jaw pressed into his neck. His little hands gripped tighter.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The man let go of the boy. His legs wrapped around his torso. He tried to fight him off, with no avail. He felt the boy’s jaw working against his chin. Then, he felt a warm trickle down his chest. “Stop it!” He choked.

He clung to the man, desperate. The boy’s grip was so strong it compressed on his lungs, preventing him from drawing in any air into his lungs. The man wheezed and began to choke. His eyes welled up with tears from fear. He staggered backwards, desperate for air. The boy’s jaws had relaxed now. The only sound the man could hear was a quiet lapping. He never loosened his grip though. 

He had no empty room in his lungs left for screaming. He threw a few weak pummels into the boy’s head, not doing any damage. Then he finally fell back onto the concrete, running out of energy to stay awake. He heard the crunch of his head hitting the pavement, then nothing more. Black in a microsecond.

Gerard finished sucking and sat there for a moment on the dead man's chest. Breathing heavily. He stroked the man’s cheek then took his face in both hands and turned it backward in one swift motion. Separated it from his spine.

-

Frank lay wide awake in his bed, staring at the wallpaper. The whole wall that his bed was pushed against was decorated with a photograph wallpaper depicting a forest meadow. Wide tree trunks and green leaves covered the wall. He would sometimes stare until figures appeared in the leaves. There were two figures he would always seen right away, but have to summon more.

Now the wall had developed another significance. On the other side of the forest there was Gerard. Frank pressed his hand up to the green surface and tried to imagine what the other side looked like. Was the other side his bedroom? Was he also laying there with his hand up right now? He transformed the leaves into his face and stroked his soft skin again.

He stopped abruptly with a flinch at the moment he heard voices on the other side.  _ Loud  _ voices. Yelling. One louder than the other Gerard and his father. It sounded like they were arguing. He pushed his ear up against the wall to hear better even though he knew it was wrong to eavesdrop. 

Gerard’s dad was the one that sounded angry. You could hardly hear Gerard’s voice at all. But when it came Frank recognized it immediately. He had to concentrate to catch any intelligible words. He caught a few swear words and the words ‘unbelievably cruel’ from his father. Then there was a thump. Had he hit him? Had he seen them when Frank stroked his face?  Rather that they sat a little too close; four inches between their faces. Was that it? He felt overcome with guilt. The other side went quiet and he concentrated harder on listening. Nothing but a few clanks. Then a loud bang came. Frank thought it was a gunshot and felt his heart skip a beat. 

He jumped out of bed and stood by his window, staring out. He saw Gerard’s dad leaving with a bag. He sighed as he realized he certainly hadn’t shot Gerard. Leastwise slammed the door.

Frank felt so small. He wished he could vibrate through the wall and help Gerard. Comfort him. He knew what it felt like for your father to be so angry. It was why his mom had left in the first place. His father would drink and drink until he was so mad. He’d scream until he was hoarse, break things, slam doors, throw tantrums. But he’d never hit anyone. Never. 

As he climbed back into his bed he hoped to God that Gerard hadn’t been struck. He also hoped it wasn’t because of anything he did. His stomach lurched with guilt and humiliation.

-

The eyes stared blindly to the ceiling of the concrete bridge. Michael brushed away a few crunchy leaves off of the body, revealing Gerard’s blue sweater he usually wore. Now laid discarded onto the man's chest. He picked it up, intending to take it back. He dropped it once he realized it was sticky. He pulled out his flask and took three big gulps of whiskey. He let it scratch at his throat in flames and warm his stomach as it hit. The leaves crunched under his body as he sat down next to the man on the ground. He looked at the dead man and noticed there was something wrong with his head.

He dug in his bag for his flashlight and shone it down the path, making sure no one was coming. When he concluded that it was empty he shone it in the man's face. His face was pale, almost blue and his eyes looked glazed over. His mouth hung open like he had something to say. Michael swallowed. The thought that this man had been allowed close to Gerard revolted him. His hand fumbled for his flask again, but he stopped, frozen. The neck. 

A wide red mark ran across his neck. He noticed the fan marks and the purpling skin. Where, he assumed, Gerard had sucked ravenously. Bruising the skin. He turned the flashlight off and drew in a deep breath. He clenched his teeth together. The skin on the man's neck has split because the head had been rotated a full 360 degrees. One full rotation. The spine had snapped. 

Michael breathed in and out deeply. Fought the impulse to run far away from here. To never return. 

He knew he had to move it before someone else found it. Which was okay with him. He could easily do that much. But he didn't like that the head was loose. It could fall back and snap off of the body as he lifted it. 

Why do this with the head? To lessen the risk of infection. Stop it wholely maybe. The body had to be turned off. That was all he had been told. He hadn’t understood it erewhile, but he understood at this moment. A shrill giggle escaped him like a birdsong under the bridge. He slapped his hand over his mouth so hard it hurt. The image of the corpse easily rising from where it lay. To brush the leaves off of its jacket. 

What was he going to do with the body?

Maybe 180 pounds of muscle, fat, and bone that had to be disposed of. Ground up. Hacked up. Burned up. Buried. No, too risky and too long of a process. 

The crematorium, of course.

Maybe they'd simply take in the body. No questions asked. Hope their enthusiasm for burning would be enough. Or he could break in and do it himself. 

No. There was singly one choice. The lake in the woods.

He stuffed Gerard's bloody sweater under the man's coat. Hung his bag over his shoulder and pushed his hands under the back and knees of the corpse. Got to his feet. Staggered a little. Regained his balance. Just as he had expected, the head fell back. Landed at a disgustingly unnatural angle and the jaw cracked with a loud pop. He shivered. 

How far was it to the water? Three miles maybe? And if someone passed him on the way? Caught him with the body? Nothing to do about that. Then it would all be over. And in a way, a relief.

He continued along the path past the trees. Whistling to himself, half hoping someone would hear him and catch him in the act. Take him to the police station. 

But no one had come and he found himself  hesitant by the lake, sweat misting his skin. He crept out along the trunk of a weeping willow that grew nearly horizontally over the water. With a loud cry, he chucked the body as far as he could into the water. He lifted a large rock from the shore and tossed it into the chest. It landed with a thud. He lifted another one. He tossed that one too. The body began to sink following the fourth rock. 

He stayed for a while. Sitting in the tree, his feet dangling barely above the water. Staring into the black mirror. Becoming less and less disturbed by bubbles. He had done it.

Despite the cold drops of sweat that decorated his forehead and stung his eyes, his body was warm. His whole body ached from the strain but he had done it. The corpse lay right under his feet, hidden  from the worlds. Did not exist. The bubbles had stopped and left nothing more to show that there had been a body in the water. A few stars twinkled down there.


	2. The humiliation.

**Wednesday, October 28**

Frank sat in the sandbox with Marcus. They were good friends a few years ago. Got along very nicely with each other. He really enjoyed Marcus’ company. But he knew his fondness towards Frank this recess wouldn't last and began to consciously savor each minute. Marcus flipped a rock out of a pile of sand. Sending grains to pile atop Frank's rocks. Frank flipped a rock of his own up, projecting a bit of sand out. Marcus snorted and made an explosion sound as he chucked a handful of rocks to the other end of the sandbox. Frank began laughing too and tossed a rock up in the air.

“What the hell are you doing?” Dominic asked, standing behind them. Ethan was with him. Frank and Marcus turned around.

“Uh, we were just-” Frank was interrupted.

“I wasn't talking to you.” Dominic held his finger pointing to Frank's face. Slowly, it levitated to Marcus'. “What were you doing?”

“Throwing rocks.” Marcus shrugged.

“Why were you doing that?” His mouth pulled up at the end. So fast, Frank thought it was a twitch.

“Just-” Marcus stood up and brushed his pants off. “No reason.” Marcus looked down at the sand box.

He extended his arm out so fast Frank flinched. “Only little kids are supposed to play here. Don't you get it? You're messing up the sandbox.”

“They could trip.” Ethan shook his head sadly. “Hurt themselves on the rocks, you know.”

“You're gonna have to clean this up.” Dominic raised his eyebrows. Frank stood up and began backing up. “Didn't you hear me?” His eyes opened wider. “I said to clean this up!”

Frank stood still. Unsure of what to do. Of course, Ethan didn't care about the sandbox. He didn't care about the little kids. Or if they tripped on rocks. It was his usual game. It would take probably around ten minutes to clear all the rocks away and out of the sandbox. Frank knew Marcus wouldn't help. And the bell was set to ring at any moment.

_No._

The word came to him like a divine inspiration.  The way when someone says the word ‘God’ for the first time. And it truly means _God_. An image of himself picking rocks out of the sand after the other boys had gone back to class ran in his mind. He thought of himself doing it entirely because Dominic told him to. Something else filled his thoughts too. In the sandbox, there was a small model of a jungle gym. Like the one in the courtyard.

Frank shook his head.

“What?” Dominic narrowed his eyes.

“No.” Frank kept his eyes on the toes of his own shoes.

“What do you mean _no_? Are you fucking retarded? I told you to clean up the rocks! That's means you _do it_.” Dominic shook his finger in the direction of the sandbox.

“No!” Frank scoffed.

The bell rang and Dominic laughed lowly. Staring at Ethan. “You know what this means, Ethan?”

“Uh huh.” Ethan nodded with his mouth open.

“We're gonna have to get him after school.” Dominic began walking towards the school doors. Ethan nodded and began following him. “See you, bitch.”

Marcus stood in front of Frank. “That was pretty dumb.”

“I know.” His ears felt hot.

“What did you do that for anyway?” Marcus put his hand on Frank's shoulder and began leading him back into class.

“I did it…” Frank reflexively followed. “Because I did it. That's it.”

“You're an idiot.” He pushed the doors open.

“I know.”

-

Frank waited until everyone had filtered out of the classroom. He watched their backs disappear and resume their usual spots on the playground. Now he had all the time he needed. It was the last recess of the day. Everyone would go home in fifteen minutes. But not Frank.

He sat up out of his desk and collected his belongings slowly. Placing every item in his backpack exactly where he wanted it to be. He started off down the hall, keeping his body close to the lockers to his right. He began to worry. What if Dominic was waiting in the halls for him? To drag him outside and force him to clean up the rocks. He sharply inhaled and raised his chin higher. He wouldn’t clean the rocks up.

As the library doors came into sight, he quickened his pace. He pushed through silently, but the librarian flinched at her desk. Obviously people didn’t come in here often. She held her delicate hand over her chest and laughed to herself. She set the book she was reading down and took her glasses off.

“Hello. Need something, sweetheart?” She scooted her chair closer into the desk.

“Hey, Mrs. Moretti. No,” Frank smiled at her. “Just gonna do some research if that’s okay.” He liked her, she was always nice to him. He made an effort to speak sweetly to her.

“Oh, of course.” She pushed her glasses higher onto her nose.

“What time do you leave?” Frank asked, laying his fingers on the edge of her desk. He had to stand on the tip of his toes to make himself eye level with her.

“Around five, why?” She tilted her head to the side.

“I was just wondering how long I could stay for?” He let go of the desk and started toward the shelf with the encyclopedias on it.

“Oh, you can stay until I leave. But do take your time, no need to rush, dear. I can always leave a bit late if you need the extra time.” She smiled, running her fingers along the top of the book pages, feeling for her bookmark.

“Thanks, I won’t make you late.” He lifted the heavy encyclopedia onto a nearby table and sat down. He pulled his notebook and a pencil from his backpack. He began turning pages in the book.

_Mammoth, Medici, Mongol, Morpheus, Morse_

There it was. The dots and dashes of the Morse code language took up a fourth of a page. He cracked his notebook open to a random, empty page and began copying them down. In large, legible letters, he began the first page.

A: .-

B: -...

C: -.-.

D: -..

He carefully copied down all the letters and even the numbers. Just in case he’d need them. When he finished the first page, he started on the second. He copied the letters and numbers down again. Wasn’t satisfied. Crumpled the piece of paper into a ball and started over, making the symbols even more neater than the first one. Of course, it was only important that one of the pages came out perfect. The one for Gerard.

Gerard and he had been meeting every evening for a week now. Yesterday, Frank had tried knocking on the wall before he went out. Gerard had answered by knocking back and they’d went out at the same time. That was when he’d had the idea of developing this communication for them. And since the Morse alphabet already existed, it made his job a lot easier.

He scrutinized the finished pages. Perfect. Gerard would like it. Just like Frank, he liked puzzles, systems. Frank carefully folded the pages three times and slid them into his pocket. He closed the large, hardcover book and rested his arms on it. His stomach had a sinking feeling. He looked at the clock on the wall. It had read 3:20. Everyone had left twenty minutes ago. He pulled the book he had sitting in his backpack out and read it until four o’clock.

They wouldn’t have waited two hours for him, would they?

If he had just picked up the rocks like Dominic said in the first place, he would have been home by now. Been fine. Picking up rocks certainly wasn’t the worst request Dominic had made. He regretted it. He thought about doing it now. Going to the sandbox and quickly cleaning it before going home. Maybe the punishment tomorrow would be milder.

No, he wouldn’t.

He gathered up his things and said goodbye to Mrs. Moretti. Made his way through the halls and out the front door, the sandbox sat in his vision, mocking him. He considered stopping for a moment. But ultimately, kept going. His eyes stayed glued to the jungle gym model as he walked past it. He hadn’t even noticed that Dominic, Ethan, and Marcus were standing there. Dominic and Ethan both held long hazel branches.

“Hey!” Dominic threw his arms up as if he was excited to see Frank. “Good, we waited for you. We waited for you a _long_ time.” He used the thin branch to point to Frank.

“Mhm,” Ethan nodded. “Then Marcus, here. Your pal. Told us you’d be coming from the library.”

Marcus’ eyes remained without expression, emotion, or any sign of life. He and Frank used to play a lot in Marcus’ yard. But Marcus had changed. He started to act differently, more grown up. The teachers thought that he was one of the most intelligent boys in the school. You could tell by the way they’d treat him. He had a computer. Wanted to be a doctor. Frank wanted to pick up a rock just to throw it in Marcus’ face.

“Aren’t you going to run?” Marcus asked. His eyes began to fill with life. Concern and regret. “Go! Get out of here!”

There was a whistling sound, then a snap as Ethan ran the branch through the air and hit the ground. Frank didn’t want to run. He balled his hand up into a fist. Of course he wanted to get away. But the embarrassment of the boys chasing him. Yelling at him as he ran away like a coward. Swallowing his pride. It was a ransom he could no longer force himself to pay.

So he took a single, slow step forward, wanting to go home.

The stinging in his leg ran from his shin up to his thigh, screaming. The whip Ethan held had met with his body. He felt his whole body tense up with fear. Then almost immediately loosen up with fury. He narrowed his eyes.

“Move. Let me go.” Frank spoke through his clamped teeth .

“What’d you say, bitch?” Dominic turned his head like he hadn’t heard.

“ _Let me go._ ” He lifted his chin up again.

“He thinks we should let him go.” Dominic turned toward Ethan. Ethan shook his head. “But we've made such nice looking…” He waved his branch in the air, showcasing it to Frank. “What do you think, Marcus?”

Marcus looked at Frank as if he were a rat, still alive, writhing in its trap.

“I think the bitch needs a whipping.” Marcus’ eyes took on a whole new expression.

Now there were three of them. Two of them had whips. It was a maximally unfair situation. He could throw a rock in Marcus’ face. Or hit him if he came close. Then there would be a talk with the principal. But he’d understand. They _were_ armed.

‘ _I was desperate.’_

Frank wasn’t desperate at all. In fact, he felt a drop of calm spread through him as he made up his decision. They could whip him as long as it gave him the opportunity to smash a rock in Marcus’ face.

Dominic smacked Frank’s thigh with a whip and he hunched over, pressing his hand against the firey sensation. Ethan ran behind him and locked his arms at his side. _No._ Now he couldn’t do anything. Dominic whipped his legs again.

They burned from the lashes. He writhed in Ethan’s arms, trying to get free. But he couldn’t. His eyes welled up from tears and he couldn’t tell if it was because of the pain in his legs or the immense anger that was being held in him, unable to get free. Dominic hit Frank’s legs again and it grazed over Ethan’s thigh.

“Watch it, will you!” He yelled in Frank’s ear. Didn’t let him go.

Frank screamed out of frustration. No matter how hard he struggled, he wouldn’t be able to get free. A tear fell down his cheek. The warmness contrasting against his cold skin surprised him and he gasped. More tears welled up in his eyes. It wasn’t fair. He’d never done anything mean to any of them. They had no real reason to hate him. Even if it was about the mess in the sandbox, why wasn’t Marcus being whipped too? He did just as much damage as Frank had. He struggled harder, with no avail. And began to cry for real.

“Aw, fag’s crying.” Dominic faked sympathy with a smirk. 

He seemed satisfied. His work was done. He gestured to Ethan to let him go. Frank’s whole body was shaking. Wracked with frustration and the pain in his legs. His eyes were red and wet with tears. When he lifted his face to them, Marcus spoke up.

“What about me?” He didn’t sound the least bit hesitant.

Ethan tossed Marcus his whip off the ground and grabbed Frank again with less force this time. He was limp in his stocky arms, like a rag doll. Through the fog of tears, he met with Marcus’ eyes. He looked back at him. Unblinking.

He raised his whip and struck. One single blow. Franks face exploded and fell so violently to the side that Ethan immediately let go. Frank’s legs gave out from under him and he laid with his face in the snow.

“What the hell, Marcus?” Dominic sounded angry. “Now, _you_ can talk to his mom.”

Frank didn’t hear him answer, if he said anything. Their voices disappeared into the distance. They’d left him unmoving. He laid there until the cold had spread through his whole face and he began to drool from his numb lips. He sat up and laid a cautious hand on his cheek. Blood came off onto his fingers. He touched the white ice stained with red tenderly. It made a crunching sound as he pressed into it.

He walked into the outside bathroom. Looked at his cheek in the mirror. It was swollen and covered in half congealed blood. Marcus must have hit him as hard as he could. Frank washed his cheek and looked in the mirror again. The bleeding had mostly stopped and it wasn’t deep. But it ran across his entire cheek.

_What am I gonna tell Mom?_

If he told Mom the truth, she’d comfort him. But also call Marcus’ parents. Probably make the whole thing worse. If he told her it was an accident in wood shop, she might call the school. Falling on the playground? It wasn’t believable, but mom would _want_ to believe it.

As he prepared to leave he rubbed an itch on his nose, forgetting about the blood left on his fingers. It left the whole tip and sides of his nose a prominent, bright red. When he saw himself, he thought he looked like a clown. His eyes opened wide in surprise. He thought he looked creepy.

“It’s over now. That’s enough, understand?” He talked to the clown in the mirror. The clown did not answer. “No more. Not even one more time, got it?” His voice echoed in the empty bathroom. “What should I do?” His face crinkled into a grimace until it hurt.

“Kill them… kill them… kill them.” The clown spoke, low and raspy, staring back at Frank.

Frank shivered. It was creepy for real. It sounded like someone else’s voice and the face in the mirror wasn’t his own. He ran the end of his sleeve under the water and scrubbed the blood off his nose. He wasn’t going to kill anyone.

But he would find a tree in the forest and stab it. Keep stabbing it until he felt better. He rushed out of the bathroom, wanting to get home as soon as he could. He began to think of gruesome situations. Some that made him uncomfortable, but he couldn't stop thinking of it.

_Marcus is sitting at his computer when he feels the first stab. Struggles out of the chair. Has no idea where it’s coming from. Makes it to the kitchen with blood gushing from his stomach. “Mom… Mom, someone is stabbing me.”_

_She would stand there, still. Marcus’ mom who always took his side no matter what he had done. She would only stand there. Terrified. While the stabs continued to puncture Marcus’ body. He’d fall to the kitchen floor in a pool of blood. The invisible knife cuts open his stomach so his intestines spill out onto the linoleum._

Not that it really worked that way, but still.

-

When Frank came home from the woods, the knife was dirty with splinters and rotten wood. He ran it under the water from the kitchen sink and dried it with a dishcloth. He held the cool metal against his still hot cheek. Mom would be home soon, but he had to go out again. Needed a little more distraction time. Tears were still clumped in his throat and his legs burned. He took the key out of the cupboards and stuck a note on the fridge. He scribbled: _‘Be back soon. Frank.’_ He put the knife back and left, going towards the basement. Unlocked the heavy door and slid in.

He liked the underground smell. A reassuring blend of wood, old things, and locked-in-ness. A little light spilled in through a ground level window and the basement was illuminated by dim light. It promised secrets of hidden treasure.

He looked at the end of the room, meant for oversized trash and recycling. He had once found a Hulk action figure in there. But there was nothing today. It must have been emptied recently. He found himself bored in there and decided to leave.

He headed to the basement in Ray’s building.

Frank stood in front of the massive iron door. It was much different in Ray’s building. The trash and recycling bins were much smaller. He took a deep breath before opening the door. Usually he’d be too scared that Ray’s friends would be here. But now he felt a lack of concern.

Frank walked over to the unlocked storage area. There wasn’t much in it. Just a badly sagging couch along with an equally saggy armchair. A rug on the floor. A coffee table with badly peeling paint. A single, naked lightbulb hung suspended from the ceiling. It was off.

He’d been here a few times. Enough to know to turn the lightbulb a bit to turn it on. But he didn't dare. Enough light filtered in through the window for him to see. His heart beat fast. If they found him here, alone?

_What? Not beat me up. But something much more horrible…_

He knelt on the rug and lifted the corner of a sofa cushion. Tubes of liquid glue, a roll of plastic bags, and lighter fluid sat underneath. In the other corner of the sofa there were porno magazines hidden. Mainly Hustler, but some other brands Frank couldn’t recall.

He took a Hustler off the top of the stack and shifted closer to the window where light filtered in. Still kneeling, he laid the magazine on the floor and opened it up. He found a page of a woman sitting in a chair. She was completely naked except for a pair of high heel shoes. She pushed her breasts together and pouted. Her legs were spread apart and in the middle of the bushy hair between her thighs, there was a strip of pink flesh with a groove down the middle.

Frank examined it. How would someone get in there? He knew there was supposed to be a hole there, but where? There wasn’t one. Only that groove. Wasn’t there supposed to be a tunnel? But in what direction? Straight up or down? You couldn’t tell.

He kept turning the pages, becoming uninterested in the woman. There was a section for reader’s own stories. At a girl’s changing room at a swimming pool. ‘ _Her nipples stiffened under my touch. My dick was thumping like a hammer in my swimming trunks. She begged me to take her as she turned her little ass towards me.’_

Did this kind of thing go on behind closed doors all the time?

He had began reading another story about a family reunion that took an unexpected turn. He heard the basement door being opened. He shut the magazine and stuffed it back in the couch. Didn’t know what to do with himself. His throat contracted and he didn’t dare to breathe. Footsteps came toward him.

He stood up and backed up against the wall, waiting to see Brian. Hoping to god it wasn’t Leo. He was scarier.

“Frank?” Ray stood there, his head tilted in wonder. “How long have you been here? What have you been doing?”

Frank continued breathing through his nose, waiting for his heart to slow back down. “Nothing.”

Ray took a few steps forward, towering over him. “What happened to your cheek?”

“Uh, it’s nothing.” Frank instinctively reached for it.

“How'd you get it, though?” Ray reached up and twisted the bulb, the light slowly coming to life.

“An accident.” Frank stood still, unsure of what to do with himself.

“Wanna sit down?” Ray collapsed onto the armchair, snagging the guitar magazine laid on the coffee table as he fell. Frank sat on the middle cushion of the couch that had nothing under it. He sighed and pressed his back into the cotton filled cushion. “Let’s hear it.” He left the magazine unopened in his lap, waiting to hear Frank.

“I… just…” Frank felt humiliated. He thought about telling Ray he’d fell on the playground. But Ray wouldn’t accept the obvious lie.

“Someone beat you up?” He squinted, looking closer at the wound. “Jeez, they must’ve been _mad._ ”

“Mhm.” Frank nodded, feeling like he was going to cry.

“Why’d they hit you?”

“I don’t know.” Frank answered after thinking for a moment. He really didn’t know why.

“They did _that_ without a reason?”

“Yeah.”

Ray nodded, He picked a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his pocket. He held the pack out to Frank. “Do you want one?”

“Okay.” Frank reached out and took a cigarette from Ray’s pack.

“What were you doing down here?” Ray lit his cigarette then tossed the lighter to Frank.

“I was just going to…” He trailed off, holding the flame to the end of the stick that hung from his chapped lips.

“Check out the babes in the magazine? Because you aren’t into sniffing right?” Ray asked, hopefully. He watched Frank puff out a cloud of smelly smoke and half regretted giving him the cigarette. The other half didn’t regret it when he saw the shaking in Frank’s hands reduce. “Come here.”

Frank nodded and obeyed. “What?”

“Breathe on me.” Ray sat up straighter, Frank did as he was told, too tired to refuse. Ray sighed and nodded, sinking back down. Frank sat back down on the couch. “Stay away from that shit, alright?”

“I haven’t done anything, Ray.” Frank laughed quietly. “Just cigarettes you’ve given me.”

“I know you haven’t. But stay the hell away, alright? It’s no good. Tobacco is okay. You can do that. But nothing else.” He paused and then gestured to the cushion next to Frank. “Wanna read more?”

Frank gulped and shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Then get going. Leo and Brian will be here soon and you shouldn’t be here when they get here.” Frank nodded and stood up. He still sucked on the cigarette, desperate. “And Frank…” Ray called out. Frank turned around. “Uh, nevermind. Forget it. Just don’t come down here anymore.”

“Sorry.” Frank stepped away from the setup.

“It’s fine. Just don’t come here anymore. Oh!” Ray raised his eyebrows. “You have the money yet?”

“No,” Frank shook his head. “Tomorrow.”

“It's fine. Keep the money. Birthday present. I made you a tape with Nervous Breakdown and Six Pack on it. Come get it later. You can keep that too.” Ray opened the magazine that laid in his lap.

Frank nodded. He felt a lump in his throat. If he stayed here he would start to cry. “Thank you, Ray.” He whispered and left before a tear could escape.

-

Frank had lied to his mother and she believed it. Now he laid on his bed, stretched out, feeling sick to his stomach. Frank. That guy in the mirror. Who is he? A lot of things happened to him. Good and bad. Strange too. But who is he? Dominic looked at him and saw a bitch he wanted to beat up. Mom looked at him and saw her little darling whom she loved. Gerard looked at him and saw… what?

He turned to the wall and looked at the painted leaves. Would he tell him if he came out tonight? All of it was connected. Whatever he told him would mold how Gerard saw him.  He was new to him. Which meant he had a chance to build the person he wanted to be.

_What do you say anyway? To make people like you._

The clock on his desk read seven twenty. He turned back to the wall, his knuckle resting on the wall. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Gerard to see him with a wound on his face. Before he could decided a careful knock came from the other side.

_Tap, tap, tap._

He waited a moment before knocking back.

_Tap, tap, tap._

Waited again. After a few seconds, a new tap.

_Tap, taptaptap, tap._

He slowly filled in the two missing ones.

_Tap, tap._

Gerard stopped tapping there.

Frank felt in his pocket for the folded papers. Still there. Pulled on his jacket. Said goodbye to mom. He opened the doors and saw Gerard barely sitting down on the bench. He was swearing black chuck taylors, dark jeans, and a black sweatshirt with _Star Wars_ written across the front. At first he thought it was his. It looked just alike. But he remembered his was sitting in the laundry basket.

“Hey there.” Gerard smiled.

Frank opened his mouth to say hi. But reconsidered to say hey there. “Hi.” He said anyway.

“What happened to your cheek?” Gerard’s smile dropped. His eyes followed Frank’s face as he sat down across from him.

"I fell.”

“Someone did that to you didn’t they?”

Frank rested his face in his hands, looking at the stars. He didn’t dare look down. Scared a tear might escape. “Yeah.”

“Who?”

“Some… uh, friends.” The word came out painfully. His eyes continued following a trail of stars.

“ _Friends_ did that?” Gerard’s voice was supple.

“Classmates. Not friends.” He corrected himself, swallowing the lump in his throat. But still not looking down at Gerard. “Where do you go to school anyway?”

“Frank?” He asked timidly. “Frank, look at me.”

“Gerard,” He whispered. He closed his eyes and sighed. Promising himself he wouldn't cry. He looked into Gerard’s eyes. “What is it?”

“You know what.” He reached out and grabbed frank's hand. His face was dark since he was sat with his back faced against the lights. Of course it was his imagination. But it looked like Gerard’s eyes were reflecting light. Like when an animal is in the dark. “Don’t let them do that, Frank.” He ran his fingers gently over the wound. Someone else, someone much older became visible under his skin. Frank shivered. “Do you hear me?”

“I do.” Frank whispered.

“You have to strike back. You’ve never done that before, have you?” He retracted his hand from Frank’s face.

“No.’ He shook his head, looking back up at the sky.

“So start now.” Gerard gripped Frank’s face by his chin and angled it back down to look him in the face. “Hit them back. Hard.

“There’s three of them.” Frank’s voice shook and his eyes began to sting.

“Then you have to hit harder. Use a weapon if you must. Stones maybe. Hit harder than you dare. Then they’ll stop.” He kept his eyes glued to Frank’s.

“And if they keep hitting back?” His voice cracked, but he didn’t feel embarrassed.

“You have a knife.” At this moment, everything felt so simple. Gerard’s hand in Frank’s. But it wasn’t simple.

“Yeah, but what if they…”

“Then I’ll help you.” He squeezed his hand. “I can do that. For you.” Frank’s hand hurt a little by how hard he’d squeezed it.

“Thanks.” He whispered. He loosened his grip on his hand and reached into his pocket, pulling the sheets out.

“What’s this?” Gerard picked one up and unfolded it.

“Wanna go over in the light?” Frank offered, unfolding his page.

“I can see fine.” He waved his hand. “But what is it?”

“Morse code. We can talk through the walls now.” He smiled, no longer wanting to cry. “Like, actual words.”

“Oh, I see.” Gerard smiled. His eyes flitted over the lines. “Awesome.” The word sounded like it didn't fit in his mouth. Seemed artificial. “That will be amusing.”

“You mean fun?” Frank giggled.

“Oh, yes. Fun, fun.” Gerard corrected himself.

“You’re a little strange, you know?”

“Am I?”

“Uh huh.” Frank nodded. “But it’s okay.”

“Oh,” Gerard set his paper down. “Then you’ll have to show me. How to not be so strange.”

“I like you this way.” Frank hadn’t stopped smiling. “Want to practice?”

“I do.” Gerard smiled, his fingers ready to tap.

Frank began.

…. ..   --.  H I  G

Gerard took a moment to decode, then giggled.

.- -- ..- … .. -. --.  A M U S I N G. He held up his finger, signaling he wasn't finished.

-.-- --- ..-- .-. .   .-   .--. .-.. . .-- … ..- .-. .  Y O U R E  A  P L E A S U R E

Frank laughed at how strange Gerard spoke once he had decoded the tapping.

-.-- --- .--   ..--- Y O U  2

Frank knew things were going to be different.

-

 

**Thursday October 29**

Michael sat on the floor in the narrow hallway and listened to the splashing coming from the bathroom. His knees pulled up to his chest. His chin rested on his knees. Jealousy was a chalk white snake in his chest. It writhed slowly, as pure as innocence and childly plain.

Replaceable. He was replaceable.

Last night he had been lying in bed with the window cracked open. Heard Gerard saying goodbye to that Frank. Their high voices, laughter. A lightness he could never achieve again.

Michael thought it could have been the best of both worlds. Gerard was young, but not. Michael had to assume no guardian's responsibility for him. But he could enjoy his company. He was mature.

But since his friendship with Frank began, something had changed. A regression of sort. Gerard had began to behave more like the child his appearance showed it. Started to move his body in a loose limbed, careless way. Used childish expressions. Wanted to _play_. Hide the key. A few nights ago Gerard had begged Michael to play hide the key with him. Had scolded him for not having the necessary enthusiasm or the game. Tried to tickle him to get Michael laugh.

The night before, Gerard had locked himself in Michael’s room and tapped on the wall for nearly an hour. When he was once again allowed in, he saw a piece of paper taped to the wall above his head. Morse code. Later when he was lying there trying to fall asleep, he had become tempted to tap his own message to Frank. Tell him what Gerard _was._  Instead, he copied the code onto the back of a receipt.

Michael bent his head and rest his forehead on his knees. The splashing from the bathroom had stopped. He couldn't go in like this. He was about to explode. From jealousy, frustration. The bathroom door unlocked and Gerard walked into the hall, wearing a pair of boxers and a towel around his shoulders.

“Oh,” He breathed out. “You're sitting out here.”

“Yeah. I miss you.” Michael left his head in his knees.

“You miss me?” Gerard blinked rapidly. “I'm here, Mikey. Right in front of you.”

“No. Not you. I miss _you._ Who I know you to be. Who you were, I guess.” He shrugged. “You're different all the time. I miss when we were able to hang out.”

“You miss when you were a child?” Gerard smirked and sat down adjacent to Michael. About five feet away. “Is that it?”

“How do you mean?” Michael’s eyes flicked to Gerard.

“You miss being young? Age is a drag, isn't it?” Gerard chuckled. “I understand.”

“I wish we were the same. We got along well, didn't we?” Michael pulled his head from his knees.

“We did.” Gerard nodded, reminiscing. “We really did. I miss that too.”

Michael sighed. “Are you hungry?

“Yes.” Gerard sat up straight.

“I'll do it for you.” Michael looked scared.

“Mikes…” He swallowed hard. “What do you want in return?”

“To be useful to you.” He shook his head. “Again. I'll do it tonight?”

“Okay.” Gerard nodded wildly. “Yes. Very good. Thank you, Mikey. But what if someone sees you? There are people who know you live here.”

“I've thought of that.” Michael said.

“If someone comes here during the day when I'm resting?” Gerard began crawling closer to Michael.

“I told you I've thought about that.” He held his hand up.

“How? What will you do?”

Michael pointed to an old jam jar with a twist on lid that sat on the night stand in the room. It was filled with clear liquid. “I'll do that. Use it on me. I'll have to take it with me tonight.”

“ _No._ Michael.” Gerard's eyes widened in horror. “You can't! I… I won't let you. _Please_.” He reached out and held onto Michael’s hands. “Mikey, please don't.”

“I have to.” He squeezed Gerard's hands. “Don't you understand how much… I care about you?”

-

It was half past seven and Michael was starting to worry. He had wandered aimlessly around the local gym and the New Jersey mall where the young people hung out. Various sport trainings were underway and the pool was open late. There was no lack of potential victims. The problem was that most of them moved in groups. He had overheard a conversation between three girls that her mom was ‘still completely psycho over this whole murderer thing.’

He could have chosen to go further afield, to an area where his earlier act had less impact. But then he ran the risk of blood going bad on the way home. And if he was going to go through the trouble of doing this again, he wanted to give Gerard the best. The fresher it was, the closer to home, the better. That's what he was told.

But he couldn’t sneak around here forever. Eventually someone would get suspicious. What if he didn't manage to find anyone? Gerard wouldn't die, he was sure of that. A difference from the first time. But now there was another aspect. A want to provide for Gerard. Maybe somehow, it could go back to how it was years ago. Or Gerard could catch up with him.

He knew what he’d have to do. It was unprecedented, but he'd do it. Go to the community pool and find his victim there. It was probably fairly deserted at this time and now that he had decided he knew exactly what to do. Dangerous, of course. But possible.

If things went wrong, he had his last resort.  But nothing would go wrong. He saw the whole thing in detail now that he was walking toward the entrance of the building. He felt intoxicated.

He walked in the main entrance and felt the familiar mild chlorine smell. All the hours he spent at the pool as a child he and Gerard used to go swimming together all the time. The smell of chlorine was comforting. Almost home like. He walked up to the cashier.

“One, please.” he held up a lonesome finger.

“Do you want a private changing room or a locker in the locker room?” She set her magazine down.

“A private room, please.” He bounced on his heels.

She stretched her arm out and handed him a key. He paid. As he walked to his room, he kept his head down in case he encountered anyone. There were not many people in here at this time. Michael didn't bump into a single person. Two men his own age were putting their clothes on in the locker room. Overweight, shapeless bodies. Michael kept his gaze away from the men’s genitals as he walked briskly to his room.

He slid inside and locked the door behind him. The initial preparations were completed. Took off his jacket and folded it. Set it down on the bench. Opened his bag and took out his tools: halothane canister, knife, rope, funnel, container. _Damn._ He had forgotten his raincoat. He’d have to keep his coat handy and his kill tidy. As long as the blood did not reach below his knees or on his face, he could cover it under his coat.

He tested the strength of the hook by grabbing it with both hands and lifting both feet from the floor. It held. It would easily hold a body lighter than his, there was enough wall space between the hook and the top of the cabin wall to make sure the feet wouldn't stick up over it. _That_ would attract suspicion.

The two men’s conversation began to fade out. Silence fell as he heard their feet stomping out. He sat for a moment, his heart accelerating. He took deep breaths until he felt dizzy. He climbed onto the bench and peeked over the top. His eyes just managed to clear the edge. Three boys around sixteen or seventeen came in. They began to undress and Michael pulled himself back down. He straightened out his tools and listened to the boys’ conversation.

“... new Atari. Enduro. Want to come over and try it?”

“No, I have some stuff I gotta do.”

“How about you?”

“Okay, but do you have two joysticks?”

“No, but…”

“We can stop by my house on the way and get mine.”

“Okay, see you, Matthew.”

“See you.”

Two of the boys disappeared on their way out. Perfect. One would be left behind by the others without anyone waiting around for him. He risked peeking out over the edge again. Two of the boys were leaving and the third one was pulling his socks on. He ducked down, luckily they hadn't seen him.

He picked up the halothane canister, put his finger on the trigger. Began to wonder what would happen if the kids came back for him. What if he decided he wanted to go. What if someone else came in. He heard the boy close his locker and begin for the exit. No time to reconsider. In a few seconds, he'd pass by Michael's room.

In the gap between the door and the wall he saw an approaching shadow. He blocked out all thoughts, unlocked the door, threw it open, and lunged.

As Matthew turned and saw the large man come bearing down on him. Only one thought, one single word flashed through his consciousness before his body instinctively pulled back.

Death.

He was recoiling before Death, who wanted to take him. In one hand, Death was holding something black. The black object flew towards his face and he drew in a long breath to scream.

But before the scream had time to escape, the black thing was over his nose and mouth. One hand gripped the back of his head, pressing his face into the black softness. The scream turned into a choked whimper. While he howled his mutilated scream, he heard a hissing sound.

He tried to scream again but something happened to his body. A numbness spread to all his limbs and now his scream was nothing but a squeak. He breathed again and his legs gave way, many colored veils fluttering in front of his eyes.

He didn't want to scream anymore. Didn't have the energy. The veils now covered his entire field of vision. He didn't have a body anymore. The colors danced in front of his eyes and he melted into the gradient.

-

Frank held the piece of paper with the Morse code on it in one hand and tapped the letters into the wall with the other. Tapping his knuckles for a dot and using the flat of his palm to smack the wall for dashed. Like they had agreed.

\--. . .-. .- .-. -..

G E R A R D

\--. --- .. -. --. --- ..- -

G O I N G  O U T

The answer came within seconds

-.-. --- -- .. -. --.

C O M I N G 

They met outside the entrance of the building. In one day he had changed. About a month ago, a Jewish woman had come to his school to talk about the holocaust, she had showed them pictures of the victims in the camps on slides. Gerard was looking a little bit like the people in those pictures. The sharp light from the fixtures above the floor cast dark shadows on his face. As if the bones were threatening to break through the skin as if the skin had become thinner. He thought the light had made it look like that, but as he came closer, he noticed there were a few white strands mixed in with his otherwise black hair.

“What did you do to your hair?” Frank wanted to reach out and touch it, but Gerard looked too fragile to touch.

“It’ll go away.” He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “What should we do?”

“Wanna go to the kiosk?” Frank shook his hand in his pocket to make sure he had his coins. “You know, the newspaper stand?”

“Oh,” Gerard nodded. “Okay, last one there is a rotten egg!” Gerard took off and Frank tried to catch up with him. Even though he looked so sick, he was much faster. An image flashed through his head.

Black and white kids.

He was running down the hill past the gummy bear factory when he got it. Those old movies that were shown on Sundays on the channel his mom left on long after she fell asleep. _Last one there is a rotten egg._ That was the kind of things they said in those films.

Gerard stood waiting for Frank down by the road, sixty feet away from the kiosk. Frank jogged over to him, trying not to pant. He had never been down by the kiosk with Gerard before and he wondered if he should tell him the thing. He knew Gerard would find it interesting at least.

“You know why they call it the Lovers Kiosk?” Frank grinned.

“No, why do they?” Gerard looked at him, genuinely curious.

“Because, I heard- no one told me, but i heard- that um…” He was embarrassed that he brought it up now, finding it hard to say.

“What?” Gerard cocked his head to the side slightly.

“Uh, the guy who owns it, he um…” Frank giggled. “He invites ladies in there. You know, when he… when it's closed.”

“Is it true?” Gerard looked at the kiosk. “Do they have enough room in there?”

“Gross, huh?” Frank sniffed.

“Yes.” Gerard nodded. They neared to the front of the kiosk and Gerard grabbed Frank by the arm. He whispered. “They must be _skinny_!” They both laughed. They stepped into the circle of light from the kiosk. Gerard rolled his eyes meaningfully at the kiosk owner, who was inside, watching a little TV. “Is that him?” Frank nodded. “He looks like a monkey.”

Frank cupped his hand over Gerard’s ear, whispered. “He escaped from the zoo five years ago. They're still looking for him.”

Gerard giggled and cupped his own hand over Frank's ear. His warm breath flowed into his head. “No they’re not. They locked him up here instead.”

They both looked up at the kiosk owner and burst out laughing, imagining him  as a stern looking monkey. Locked in a cage, surrounded by candy. At the sound of their laughter, he looked at them and furrowed his brow. Making himself look more like a gorilla. Frank and Gerard pressed their hands over their mouths, trying to stop laughing and regain seriousness.

“What do you want?” The owner leaned out the window.

Gerard suddenly became serious, removed his hand from his mouth and stood under the window. “I’d like a banana, please.” Frank laughed and pressed his hand harder over his mouth. Gerard turned and pressed his index finger against his lips, shushing him.

“I don’t have any bananas.” The owner grunted.

“No _bananas_?” Gerard faked disbelief.

“No,” He sighed. “Anything else?” Gerard shook his head.

“No bananas.” Gerard faked sadness, walking up to Frank. He stood, his jaw cramping from repressing the laughter so hard.

“He…” Frank giggled. “He must have eaten them all himself.” He pulled himself together and walked up to the window. “Can I get a bag of mixed candy, please?”

“Sure,” The owner gave him a disapproving look as he pulled the tongs from the various clear boxes and began filling the plastic bag,

“Oh, don't forget the bananas.” Frank was holding back laughter so hard, his eyes began to water,

“I don't _have_ any bananas.” He growled.

“I meant the hard candy bananas.” Frank pointed to a box to the right. The owner snorted and shoveled some candy bananas into the bag. He handed it to Frank.

As Frank walked towards Gerard he saw him giggling. He pressed his index to his lips just as Gerard had done to him earlier. Before Frank had a chance to have a piece of his own candy, he offered one to Gerard.

“No thanks.” He shook his head. They were going down the street back to the apartments.

“You don't eat candy?” The bag remained closed.

“I can't.”

“No candy?”

“Nope.”

“What a drag.”

“Yes. No- actually, I don't know what it tastes like.”

“You’ve never tasted it?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know you can't eat it?”

“I just know. That's all.”

This happened quite often. They would be talking about something and Frank would ask him a question. To which Gerard would respond only with ‘that's just how it is’ or ‘I just know’, no further explanation. That was another thing that was strange about Gerard.

It was too bad he couldn't eat candy. That was Frank's plan, the whole reason he came to buy some anyway. He wanted to be generous. Let Gerard have first pick. But now that he knew he couldn't have any candy, he felt dumb holding the bag. He popped a gummy worm in his mouth and snuck a peek at him, he didn't really look healthy. All those white strands in his hair. In a book, Frank had read that someone's hair could go white after they had a big scare. Is that what happened to Gerard?

“I...” He sighed. “I guess I could try _one._ ” He held out his hand.

Frank dropped a candy banana into his hand and he giggled. He popped it into his mouth. They entered the courtyard and Gerard sucked the flavor out of the hard candy. The moment only lasted a few seconds. Gerard spit out the candy and began to gag as he ran away to the side of the building. Frank followed, running as fast as he could to catch up.

Gerard stood with one hand on the wall, leaning over, slightly swaying. His head was down and he retched violently, a waterfall of liquid coming out of his mouth. Much more than he ate. He hadn't even removed all the artificial color from the candy. Frank felt overcome with guilt as he came closer and closer to Gerard. He rubbed a large circle into Gerard's back as he dry heaved a few more times. He stood up straight, panting.

Gerard looked to the side and wrapped his arms around himself. He looked so little. Frank wanted to put his arm around him but wouldn't dare. Gerard took one step forward, hesitated, then turned around to face Frank, looking very nervous.

“Frank?” His gaze shifted to the ground.

Then he did it. His whole body was asking for it. From somewhere, he got the courage to do it. He hugged him. For a terrifying second, he thought he'd done the wrong thing. His body was stiff, locked. He was about to let go when he relaxed in his embrace. The knot loosened and he coaxed his arms out, put them around his back, and leaned trembling against him.

He leaned his head on his shoulder and they stood like that. His breath against his shoulder. They held each other without saying anything, Frank closed his eyes and he knew; this was big. Light from the street lamp filtered in through his closed eyelids and created a red membrane in front of his eyes.

Gerard nuzzled his head in closer towards his neck. The head from his breath grew more intense. Muscles in his body that had been relaxed grew tense again, his lips grazed against Frank’s neck and his breath hitched.

Suddenly, Gerard shuddered and broke away, took a step back. Frank let his arms fall. Gerard shook his head like he was freeing himself from a nightmare. Frank stayed put as Gerard started to the front door, he wrapped his hands around the handle.

“Gerard?” Frank called out. “Where's your dad?”

“He…” He thought for a second. “He was going to bring me food.”

_He doesn't get enough to eat. That's what it is._

“You can have dinner with us if you want.”

Gerard let go of the door and walked back over to Frank. Frank quickly started to plan things out. He didn't want his mom to meet Gerard, not the other way around either. Maybe he could make a few sandwiches and bring them back to his place.

“Frank, do you like me?” Gerard looked at him earnestly.

“Yes. A lot.” He swallowed hard.

“If I turned out to not be a boy… would you still like me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that… would you still like me even if I wasn't a boy?”

“Yes, I don't see why not.” Frank nodded.

“Are you sure?” Gerard's voice shook.

“Yes. Why do you ask?” Frank wanted to get closer to him.

“Frank!” He flinched then realized it was his mother calling from their window. “ _Frank_!”

“What?” He called back, running to stand where she could see him.

“Come in now.” She yelled. “It's time to eat.”

“Yeah alright.” He waved her off.

“What are you doing?” She asked.

“Nothing!” He began to shake with rage. “Go back in! I'll be in in a second!”

Frank turned around and ran back to where he previously stood with Gerard. He was gone, he couldn't have gone inside because he would have noticed him. But he was gone. Vanished. Frank stood in the dark corner for a moment. Then went inside.

-

Michael dragged the boy into the changing room. He hardly made a noise. The only sound that could alert someone would be the hissing of the can. He would have to work quickly. It would have been so much easier to be able to attack directly with a knife. But the blood had to come from a live body. Another aspect that had to be explained to him. Blood from the dead was worthless, harmful even.

Well, the boy was alive. His chest rose and sank as he inhaled the stupidifying gas. He tightened the rope around the boy’s legs, right above his knees. Slung both ends above the hook and began to pull. The boys legs were lifted from the ground.

The door opened and voices rang out. He held the rope in one hand and turned off the gas with the other, removing the mouthpiece from the boy's face. The anesthetic would hold for a few minutes. He would have to keep working, as silently as he could, regardless that there were people in the room.

In fact, there were several men out there. Two, three, four? They were talking about some tournament. Handball. While they talked, Michael rose the boy's body. The hook squeaked, the weight felt differently than when he had tested it. The men stopped talking. Had they heard anything? He froze, not breathing. Held the body still, suspended with the head barely above the ground.

No, just a lull in the conversation. The resumed. _Keep talking, keep talking._

“What you don't have in your arms, you'd better have in your head.”

“He's pretty good at getting them in, you have to give him that.”

“That spin. Don't know how he does it.”

The boys head cleared the floor by a few decimeters now. How could he secure the end of the rope? The spaces between the planks were too narrow for the rope to fit through. And he couldn't very well work with one hand while the other was holding the boy up with the rope. He stood with the rope in his tightly knit hands, sweating. The thermal shirt he was wearing underneath was really hot; he should take it off.

_Later, when I'm done._

The other hook. Just had to make a loop. Sweat ran into his eyes as he lowered the boy’s body in order to create slack in the rope to allow him to form a loop. Pulled the boy back up and tried to get the loop in the hook. Too short. He lowered the boy again. The men stopped talking. In the silence, he made another hook further along the rope, waited. They started talking again. Bowling. The sweat stung his eyes.

_Why can't they just leave._

He managed to get the loop on the hook and exhaled. The boys body was suspended in the right position and now all he had to do was get to work before he woke up. And they needed to leave. But they went on sharing bowling memories and how people used to play in the olden days and someone who got his thumb stuck in the ball and had to be taken to the hospital to get it out.

It couldn't be helped. Michael put the funnel in the plastic jug and placed it next to the boys neck. Took out the knife. When he turned around to start bleeding the boy, the conversation died down again. And the boy's eyes were open. Wide open. The pupils were wandering around as he hung there, upside down. Trying to find a mental foothold, comprehension. They fixed on Michael as he stood there, with a knife in his hand.

The boy opened his mouth and screamed.

Michael staggered back, hitting the changing room wall with a heavy thump. He almost lost his balance. The boy screamed and screamed. The sound echoed through the dressing area, bouncing off the walls. Was strengthened by the closed space than Michael's ears began to ache. His hand hardened around the knife handle and the only thought that went through his head was that he had to get the boy to stop screaming. He bent over toward the boy.

“Hey!” Someone banged on the door. “Open up!”

Michael dropped the knife. The clang of the metal hitting the floor was barely noticeabe between the deafening screams and the banging on the door. The door was rattling hinges from the blow.

“I said open up, or I'll knock down the door!”

Over. It was all over. There was only one thing left. The noises around him disappeared. His field of vision narrowed to a tunnel as he turned back to his bag. Through the tunnel he saw his hand reach down into the bag. His fingers wrap around the jam jar.

He sat down hard on his backside with the jar in his hand, unscrewed the lid.

When they got the door open. Before they managed to get to him. His face.

Through all the screaming and blows to the door he thought about Gerard. The time they had together. He conjured up an image of Gerard as an angel. A boy angel, flying down from heaven, spreading his wings, who was going to pick him up, carry him off. Take him to a place they could always be kids. Together. Always.

The door flew open and slammed into the wall. The boy continued to scream. There were three men standing outside, more or less dressed. They stared uncomprehendingly at the scene before them. Michael nodded slowly, accepting it.

“Gerard!” he shouted. “Gerard!”

And poured the concentrated acid over his face.

-

Ray sat on the leather sofa and suffered. He watched his mom and Steven on the piano together. She was hitting the keys while they sang together. From time to time, they'd look at each other and smile. He had found a little hole in the armrest of the sofa and worked at making it bigger. He shifted uncomfortably as he wondered if his mom and Steven had ever done it on this couch. His index finger dug around in the stuffing.

Dinner had been okay. Some kind of marinated chicken on rice. After dinner, Steven had shown Ray the safe where he kept his pistols. He stored it under the bed and Ray had wondered the same thing in there. Had they slept together in his bed? Did his mom think about his dad while Steven was touching her? Did Steven get turned on by the thought of the guns he kept under the bed? Did she?

His mother played the final chord, allowed it to die out. Ray pulled his finger out of the now substantial hole in the sofa. His mom nodded to Steven, took his hand, and sat him down on the piano bench next to her. From where Ray was sitting, it looked like the picture of the Virgin Mary was positioned right above their heads, as if they had rehearsed it in advance.

“Ray,” she looked at Steven, smiled, then back to Ray. “There's something we want to share with you.”

“Are you getting married?” He left his face unemotional.

She hesitated. As if in their rehearsal, his line had not been included. “Yes, what do you think?”

“Okay,” Ray shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“We were thinking… maybe next summer.” His mom looked at him, as if to see if he had a better suggestion.

“Yeah, whatever, sure.” He put her finger back in the hole, let it rest there.

“I know that I can't replace your dad.” Steven leaned forward. “In any way. But I hope that you and I can get to know each other and become buddies.”

“Hm,” Ray huffed. “Where are you going to live?”

“ _We_ , Ray.” His mother suddenly looked sad. “This is about you too, you know? We don't know yet. We were thinking of getting a house in New York. If we can.”

“New York.” He though about Brian and everything he'd said about living there.

“Yeah, what do you think?” She leaned back.

“Expensive.” Ray looked at the glass table where his mother and Steven were half transparent. Like ghosts.

“What is?” She asked, already knowing what he meant.

“A house in New York.” He squirmed his finger in the hole. Managed to pull some foam off. “It’s expensive. Costs a lot of money. Do you have a lot of money?”

Steven was about to answer when the phone rang. He stood up and stroked Ray’s mother's cheek. Made his way to the phone in the hall. His mom sat down next to Ray on the sofa and asked. “Don't you like it?”

“I love it.” He kept his gaze down.

Stevens voice carried out of the hall. He sounded agitated. “That’s… yes. I'll be there on the double. Should we… no I'll go straight there. Okay.” He came back into the living room. “The killer is at the community swimming pool. They don't have enough people at the station so I have to…” He disappeared into the bedroom. Ray could hear the safe being opened and closed. Steven changed in there and after a while, emerged in his full police uniform. His eyes looked slightly crazed. He kissed Ray's mother on the mouth and slapped Ray's knee. “Have to go right away. Don't know when I'll be back. See you two later.”

He hurried out into the hall and Ray's mom followed after him. He heard something about ‘be careful' and ‘I love you’ and ‘staying?’ while he went up to the piano and, without knowing exactly why, stretched out his arm and picked up the shooting trophy. It was heavy, at least five pounds. While his mom and Steven were saying goodbye to each other- _they're getting off on this. The man heading into battle. The woman who pines for him._ \- he walked out onto the balcony. He sucked the cold night air into his lungs and felt like he could breathe for the first time in hours.

He leaned over the balcony railing, saw the thick bushes growing underneath. He held the trophy out over the railing. Let it go. It fell into the bushes with a rustling sound. His mother came out onto the balcony and stood next to him. After a few seconds, the front door opened and Steven came out, half- running to the parking lot. His mom waved but Steven didn't look up. Ray giggled as he jogged past the balcony.

“What is it?” SHe looked almost offended.

“Nothing.” He waved her away.

_Just a little kid with a gun hiding in the bushes and taking aim at Steven.That's all._

Ray felt pretty good, all things considered. He looked over the railing into the bushes and thought he caught a glimpse of shiny metal down there. Looked like one of those Huey, Dewey, and Louie came home with after their competitions.

“What are you thinking about?” His mom asked.

“Donald Duck.” He giggled.

“You don’t like Steven much, do you?”

“It’s okay, mom.”

“Is it?”

“Has he shown you his pistols?” He asked after a moment of silence.

“Why do you want to know something like that?” She sounded flustered.

“Just wondering. Has he?” He pressed.

“I don't understand.”

“It's not that hard, mom. Has he opened the safe, taken out the guns, and shown them to you?”

“Yes. why?” She rose her voice a bit.

“When did he do it?”

“I’m cold.” She changed the subject.

“Do you think about Dad?” He changed it again.

“Yes, of course I do. All the time.”

“All the time.” He repeated.

“What are you implying?”

“What are _you_ implying?" He ran his hands down his face. "Will you come with me to see Dad tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, it's All Saints or something.”

“Ray.” She hugged him. He stood there stiff for a moment. Freed himself and walked back in. While he was putting on his coat he realized he needed his mom to come back inside if he was going to look for the statue. He called out to her and she ran back in, hungry for words.

“Yeah, uh. Give my regards to Steven.”

She lit up. “I will. You're not staying?”

“No, I… it could take all night.” He stumbled through the sentence.

“Yes. I'm a little worried.” She began to fumble with her fingers.

“You shouldn't be, he knows what he's doing. He knows how to shoot. Bye.” He hurried to the door.

“Good bye.” The front door slammed shut. “Honey.”

-

There was a muffled hum from deep inside the Volvo as Steven drove it up over the curb at high speed. His upper and lower teeth slammed together with such force it sounded like a bell rang out in his head. He went blind for a second and almost ran over an older man who was about to join a group of onlookers that had gathered around a police car by the main entrance.

Larson, a new police recruit, was in the patrol car talking over the radio. Probably calling for backup or an ambulance. Steven drove up behind the patrol car in order to leave clearance for any other vehicles that might be on their way. Jumped out and locked the car. He always locked his car, even if he was going to be gone for just a minute. Not because he was afraid it would get stolen. But in order to keep the habit alive. So he would never forget to lock a _patrol car for gods sake._

He walked up the steps to the main entrance and made an effort to walk with authority in front of his onlookers; he knew he had an appearance that inspired confidence. At least with most people. Many of the people who were gathered probably saw him and thought: ‘Aha! Here's the guy who's gonna clear all of this up.’

Shortly inside the front doors there were four men in swimming trunks with towels wrapped around their shoulders. Steven walked past them, towards the changing rooms, but one of the men called out “Hello, excuse me.” and ran over to him on bare feet.

“Yes, sorry. But our clothes?” He asked, sadly.

“Your clothes? What about them?” Steven did his best to not get thrown off.

“When can we get them?”

“Your clothes?”

“Yes, they're still in the changing rooms and were not allowed in there.” He pointed to the doors to the changing rooms.

Steven opened his mouth, about to say something snappy about how their clothes were not his highest priority right now. Then a woman in a white t-shirt came to them with white robes in her hands. He gestured to her then continued on his way.

In the corridor, he met another woman in a white shirt walking alongside a boy, Steven guessed was aged sixteen or seventeen, towards the entrance. The boys face was a deep red against the white robe he was wrapped in. His eyes were devoid of expression, locked on the floor. The woman turned to Steven with a look that was almost accusatory.

“His mother's coming to pick him up.”

Steven nodded. Was this boy the victim? He had wanted to ask this, but in his haste, couldn't think of a reasonable way to put the question. Had to assume Hayworth had taken the boy's name and other information. Judged it best to let his mother come in and take over, accompanying him to the ambulance, crisis intervention, therapy.

_Protect these. Thy smallest._

Steven kept going down the corridor. Ran up the steps while inside his head he recited a prayer of thanks for the Lord's mercy and for the strength to meet the challenges ahead.

Was the murderer really still in the building?

Outside the changing rooms, under a sign with the single word _men_ , there were appropriately enough, three men talking to constable Hayworth. Only one of the three was fully dressed. The other two both lacked an item of clothing. One a shirt, the other pants.

“I'm glad you got down here so fast.” Hayworth said.

“Is he still here?”

“In there.” He pointed to the changing room door.

Steven gestured at the three men. “Are they...?"

“We’re witnesses.” The man without pants said with pride.

“Shouldn't they…” Steven nodded inquiringly and looked at Hayworth.

“Yes, but I thought I'd wait until you got down here. Apparently, he's not violent.” He turned back to the men. “We’ll be in touch. The best thing you can do now is go home. Oh, and one more thing. I know now this may be hard, but try not to discuss the events of tonight amongst yourselves.”

“Someone could overhear us, you mean.” The man without pants nodded and half smiled in agreement.

“No, but you could start to imagine you saw something you didn't.” He gently corrected. 

“Not me. I know what I saw and it was the most hellish thing.” His eyebrows were raised high to the middle of his forehead. 

“Believe me, it happens to the best of us. And now you'll have to excuse us. Thank you for your help.”

The men walked off into the corridor, mumbling. Hayworth was good at this kind of thing. Talking to people. That's what he did most. Went around in schools and talked about drugs and police work. Wasn't pulled into this kind of thing often nowadays.

A metallic noise, as if a sheet of metal had fallen to the ground, came from the changing room. Steven flinched and listened intently.

“No violent, you said?” It meant to come out as a joking, sarcastic remark, but came out harsh and accusing.

“Badly injured, apparently. Poured some kind of acid onto his face.”

“Why'd he do that?”

Hayworth’s face went blank and he turned to the door. “I guess we’ll have to go in and ask.”

“Armed?”

“Probably not.” He pointed to a large kitchen knife with a wooden handle sitting on a nearby ledge. “I didn't have a bag with me. And anyway the guy without pants had managed to stand there handling it for a while before I came. We'll have to deal with it later.”

“Are we just going to let it sit there?” Steven scoffed.

“Got a better idea?”

Steven shook his head and in the ensuing silence he perceived two different things. A soft, irregular blowing sound coming from the changing room. Wind whistling through a chimney. A cracked flute. That and a smell. Something that he had at first assumed to be a part of the ubiquitous chlorine scent that permeated the whole building. But this was different. A sharp, stinging smell in his nostrils. He wrinkled his nose.

“Should we?” Steven whispered.

Hayworth nodded, but didn't move. Married with children. Sure, he had more reason to me scared than him. Steven pulled his gun from the holster, let his other hand rest on the door handle. It was the third time in his twelve years of service that he was entering a room with his weapon drawn. Didn't know if he was doing the right thing, but no one would be likely to criticize him. A child killer. Concerned, perhaps desperate, no matter how injured.

He gave Hayworth a silent sign and opened the door.

The fumes overwhelmed him. They stung so much his eyes started to water. He crouched, took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it over his nose and mouth. A few times when he had been assisting the fire department at a fire, he had experienced something similar. But here there was no smoke. Only a light mist suspended in the air.

_Good god, what is this?_

The repetitive, hacking sound could still be heard from the other side of the row of changing lockers in front of them. Steven signalled for Hayworth to go around the lockers from the other side so they would be approaching from two directions. Steven went up to the edge of the locker row and peeked around the corner with his gun held down along his side. He saw a metal trashcan kicked over and a body writhing on the ground.

He appeared on the other side, signalled Steven to take it easy, there didn't appear to be any immediate danger. Steven felt a twinge of irritation, he was trying to take over command of the situation now that it didn't appear to be dangerous any longer. He breathed in through his handkerchief, took it away from his mouth, and began to speak in his loudest voice possible.

“This is the police. Can you hear me?”

The man on the floor gave no sign of comprehension. Just kept on making that repetitive, repulsive sound. With his face turned down to the ground. Steven took a few steps forward.

“Put your hands where I can see them.”

The man didn't move. But now that Steven was closer, he could see that the body was twitching all over. That part about the hands was unnecessary. One arm lay curled over the trash can. The other sprawled on the floor. The palms were swollen and cracked.

_Acid… what does he look like?_

Steven held the handkerchief in front of his mouth again and walked up to the man while putting his gun back in his holster, trusting the fact that Hayworth would cover him if something happened. The body twitched spasmodically and produced a soft smacking sound every time the skin on the face pulled up free from the tile then reattached itself. The hand on the floor flopped around like a flounder on a rock. All the time, the sound issued from the mouth directed itself into the floor. A soft whining.

Steven indicated to keep his distance and crouched down next to the body.

“Can you hear me?”

The man stopped making noise. Suddenly the whole body writhed spasmodically and rolled over.

_His face._

Steven jumped back, lost his balance, and landed on his tailbone. He clenched his teeth to not cry out when the pain fanned out into his lower back. He squeezed his eyes shut. Opened then again.

_He has no face._

Steven had once seen a drug addict who, during a hallucination, had repeatedly smashed his face against a wall. He had seen a man who had welded near a gas tank without emptying it first. It exploded into his face. But nothing approached this.

The man’s nose had completely burned away. Leaving only two holes in his head. The mouth had melted together, the lips sealed with the exception of a small opening in a corner, one eye had melted down over what was his cheek, but the other eye was wide open. Steven stared into the eye, the only thing that was recognizably human in the unshapely mass. The eye was red and strained and when it tried to blink, there was only a thread of skin that fluttered down and back up again.

Where the rest of the face should have been there were only pieces of bright cartilage and obnoxious bone sticking out between irregular shreds of flesh. The naked, glistening muscles contracted and relaxed, contorting as if the head had been replaced by a mass of freshly killed and butchered eels.

The whole face, what had been the face, had its own life.

Steven felt a pulling in the back of his throat and would have probably thrown up if his body weren’t so focused on pumping pain into his lower back. Slowly, he pulled his legs back in under him, stood up, leaning on the lockers for support. The red eye stared at him the whole time.

Hayworth stood with hanging arms and stared at the deformed body. It wasn't just the face. The acid had ran down onto the chest and reached the stomach. The skin over the collarbone one one side was gone and the bone stuck out, black fibers from the shirt stuck to it. It glowed like a white piece of chalk in a meat stew. Hayworth shook his head, raised and lowered one hand half way up and down, up and down. Coughed. He exhaled a breath that came out as a gag.

“Oh, god.” He groaned.

-

It was eleven o’clock and frank lay in his bed. Slowly tapped against the wall.

\--. . .-. .- .-. -..

G E R A R D

\--. . .-. .- .-. -..

G E R A R D

No answer.

-

 

**Friday october 30**

The boys in class 6b stood outside the gym, waiting for the go ahead from Mr. Avila. Everyone had some kind of gym bag in their hands. Because god save you if you forgot your gym clothes or did not have an acceptable reason to sit out. They stood at arm lengths from each other, like Mr. Avila had told them on the first day of fourth grade when he had taken over the responsibilities of the gym teacher.

“A straight line! Arms length!”

Mr. Avila had been a fighter pilot in the war. He had entertained the boys a few times with stories about airborne skirmishes and emergency landings in fields of wheat. They were impressed. They had respect for him.

A class that was considered difficult and unruly now stood lined up in a neat row at arms lengths distance from each other even though the teacher was out of sight. If the line didn't meet his expectations then he made them wait there an extra ten minutes or cancelled a promised volleyball game in favor of pull ups and sit ups.

Like the rest of them, Frank had a healthy respect for his gym teacher. With his stubbly gray hair, eagle nose, a still impressive physique, and irons grip. Mr. Avila was hardly predisposed to love or sympathize with a meek, small, bullied boy. But order ruled during his class period. Neither Dominic, Ethan, or Lucas dared to do anything while Mr. Avila was around.

Mr. Avila came out of the front entrance and walked briskly to the gym. He looked straight ahead without giving the class so much as a glance. When he was halfway across the school yard, he made a _follow me_ gesture with one hand and the line began moving. He didn't turn around or break a stride.

The line was trying to retain the arms length distance. Lucas, who was behind Frank, stepped to the back of his shoe and it slid off his heel. Frank kept walking. Since the whip incident, Dominic and Ethan had left Frank alone. Not that they had gone so far as to apologize to him. But the wound was still very visible on Frank’s cheek. And they probably felt it was enough. For now.

Frank bunched his toes up in his shoe in order to keep it from sliding off. He began to think about Gerard. Where was Gerard? Frank had kept a lookout last night to see if his dad ever came home. He never saw him. But he did see Gerard slip out around 10 pm. He had cinnamon rolls with his mom and laid down. Maybe he had missed seeing them come home. But he had not answered any of the messages he had tapped into the wall.

The class lumbered into the changing rooms and the line dissolved.

Mr. Avila stood waiting for them with crossed arms.

“Well, well. Today, physical training. With bar, pommel horse, and jump rope.” Groans filled the locker room. Avila nodded. “If is good, if you work hard, next time we play basketball. But today: physical training. Get a move on.”

No room for discussion. You had to make due with the promise of basketball. The class hurried up and changed. Up in the gym, the others were busy setting up the equipment. Putting out the pommel horse and lowering the bars. Lucas and Frank carried out the mats together. When everything was arranged to his liking, Avila blew his whistle. There were five stations so he divided them up into groups of two.

Frank was paired with Sebastian. Luckily, the only kid who was worse at gym than Frank was. He was chubby. Even so, no one messed with him. He was strong. And something about the way he carried himself, told people if you messed with him, you’d have a shitstorm.

Mr. Avila blew the whistle again and everyone got to work.

Pull ups on the bar, chin over the bar, then down, then up again. Frank managed three. Sebastian did six, then gave up. Whistle, sit ups. Sebastian only lay on the mat and stared at the ceiling. Frank did cheater sit ups until the next whistle. Jump rope. Frank was good at this. He kept jumping while Sebastian got tangled in his rope. Then push ups. Sebastian could do these until the cows came home. Then the pommel horse. The damn horse.

It was a relief to be paired with Sebastian. Frank snuck a peek at Dominic and Ostin. How they flew over the horse via the springboard. Sebastian geared up, ran, bounced so hard the board creaked. He still didn’t make it. He turned to walk back. Mr. Avila came up to him.

“Up on pommel.” He commanded.

“Can’t do it.” Sebastian shrugged.

“Then you do over.” He shrugged too, poking fun at him.

“What?”

“Do over. Do over. Go jump! Jump!” He began clapping.

Sebastian grabbed the horse, heaved himself up and slid down the other side like a slug. Once the area was cleared, Avila waved _go_ for frank. He ran. Somewhere before the jump he made up his mind, that he would try.

Once, Avila had told him to not be afraid of the pommel horse, that everything hung over his attitude. Normally, he didn’t jump from the springboard with full force, afraid of losing his balance or hitting something, but now he was going to go all out. Pretend as if he could do it. Avila watched Frank run at the board at full force.

He hardly thought of the jump off the springboard so focused was he on the aim of clearing the horse. For the first time, he had hit the springboard with full force. His body took off on its own and he extended his arms to balance himself in the air. He flew over the pommel horse with such force that he lost his balance while in the air and tumbled headfirst. But he had cleared it!

“Good, Frank. But more balance.” He wasn’t smiling but he was nodding approvingly.

Avila blew his whistle and allowed them to rest for a minute before starting up again. This time Frank had cleared the horse and kept his balance the whole way.

Avila ended the lesson and went into his office while everyone began putting the equipment away. Frank folded out the wheels on the pommel horse. Wheeled it into the storage room, patted it like a good horse that allowed itself to be tamed. He put it up against the wall and began across the gym, wanting to talk to Avila.

He was stopped halfway. A noose made from the jump rope was thrown over his head and landed around his stomach. Someone held him in place. He heard Dominic behind him laughing. Frank turned around so the loop slid around and rested against his back. He faced Dominic. Dominic held the ends of the ropes in his hands and waved them up and down.

“Giddy up, bitch.”

Frank grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled it so hard Dominic lost his grip. The rope clattered onto the floor and Frank stepped out of the loop. Dominic pointed to the rope.

“Now you have to pick it up.”

Frank picked up the jump rope in the middle and started to swing it above his head so the handles clattered against each other.

“Here it comes!” And let go. The jump rope flew off and Dominic instinctively put his hands up to shield his face. The jump rope fluttered over his head and smacked into the bars on the wall behind him.

Frank walked the rest of the way out of the gymnasium then ran to the locker rooms. The sound of his heartbeat hammering in his ears. It had begun. He walked through the locker room and into Mr. Avila's office.

He was sitting there in his gym clothes talking on the phone. Frank recognized the sound as Spanish, he said the word ‘perro’ over and over. Frank knew it meant dog. He heard Dominic walk into the locker room and began talking in a loud voice.

The locker room had emptied out before Avila had stopped talking about his dog.

“So, Frank. What do you want?” He hung up the phone.

“The training sessions on Thursdays?”

“Yes?”

“Can I go to them?”

“You mean the strength training at the swimming pool.” He stated, beginning to sort a stack of papers.

“Yes, those. Do I sign up or-”

“No, no need to sign up. Just show up. Thursdays seven o’clock you want to do it?”

“Yes... I- yes.” He fumbled on the words.

“That is good. You train. Then you can do pull up bar fifty times.” He mimed the pull up bar.

“Cool,” Frank breathed out. “I’ll be there.”

“Then I see you on Thursday, good.”

“How is your dog?” Frank asked before leaving.

“Dog?” He looked up at him from his chair.

“Yes, I heard you say _perro_ on the phone just now. Doesn't that mean dog?”

“Ah, not perro, _pero,_ that means but. As in _but_ _not_ _me_. That is pero yo no. Understand? You want to join the Spanish club too?”

“No, strength training will do for now.” He admitted before turning to leave.

Franks locker was open and he sighed. Should have made sure it was locked. His pants were gone. Of course. He hadn't thought of that in advance. He checked everywhere in the locker room. Even the toilets. No pants.

-

The chill nipped at his legs as he walked home in his gym shorts. It had started to snow during gym class. The snowflakes fell and melted on his legs, in the yard, he stopped and looked at Gerard’s window, the blinds were drawn, but no movement inside. Large snowflakes caressed his upturned face. He stuck his tongue out and caught some. They tasted good

-

“Hi, I was going to meet my dad, but he didn’t show up. May I come in and use the phone?”

“Of course.”

“May I come in?”

“The telephone is over there.”

The woman pointed further into the hallway, a gray telephone sat on the table. Gerard remained where he was outside the door. He hadn't been invited in yet. Right next to the door there was a cast iron hedgehog shoe wiper with prickles made of piassava fibers. Gerard wiped his shoes off in order to hide his inability to enter.

“Are you sure it’s alright?”

“Of course, come in, come in.”

The woman made a tired gesture. Gerard was invited. The woman seemed to have lost interest and walked into the living room. Gerard could hear the static whining of the tv. A long yellow ribbon was tied around her thin hair and ran down her back like a pet snake.

Gerard walked into the hall. Dialed a random number. Pretended to talk to someone. Put the receiver down.

Drew in air through his nose. Cooking smells, cleaning agents, earth, shoe polish, winter apples, damp cloth, electricity, dust, sweat, wallpaper, glue, and cat urine.

A soot black cat stood in the doorway to the kitchen, growling at him. The ears pulled back, fur standing on end, back arched. It had a red band around its neck with a little metal cylinder on it. Probably imprinted with the owner's name and address on it. Gerard took a step back and the cat bared its teeth, hissing. The body was tensed for attack, one more step.

The cat retreated, pulling itself backward while continuing to hiss maintaining eye contact. The hate pulsating through its body caused the cylinder to tremble. They took measure of each other. Gerard slowly moved forward, forcing the cat backward until it was in the kitchen, then he closed the door. The cat continued to growl and meow angrily from the other side. Gerard walked into the living room.

The woman was sitting in a leather couch so well polished the light from the TV was reflected off of it. She sat bolt upright, staring unstintingly at the blue flickering screen. On the coffee table in front of her there was a bowl of crackers and a cutting board with three cheeses. An unopened bottle of wine and two glasses. 

The woman did not seem to note Gerard’s presence as she was completely absorbed by the TV program. Penguins at the south pole.

_The male carries the egg on his feet so it will not come in contact with the ice_

A caravan of penguins swaying from side to side moved across an ice desert. Gerard sat down on the sofa next to the woman. She sat stiffly as if the TV was a disapproving teacher scolding her.

_When the female returns after three months, the male’s layer of fat has been all but used up._

Two penguins rubbed beaks.

“Are you expecting someone?” He asked.

The woman flinched and stared without comprehension into Gerard’s eyes for a few seconds. The yellow bow accentuated how ravaged her face looked. She shook her head quickly.

“No, help yourself.”

Gerard didn't move. The picture on the tv screen changed to a panorama of the southern parts of soviet georgia, set to music. In the kitchen, the cat's meows had turned into something more like a beseeching. There was a chemical smell in the room. The woman was emitting a hospital smell.

“Is anyone going to come over?” He asked.

Again the woman flinched as if she had been woken up. Turned to Gerard. This time she looked irritated. Pointed at the cheeses with a stiff finger.

“No, no one’s coming over. Eat if you like. Camembert, gorgonzola, and roquefort. Eat, eat!”

She looked sternly at Gerard and he swiped a cracker. Put it in his mouth and chewed slowly. The woman nodded and turned her gaze back to the screen, Gerard spit the chewy mass into his hand and dropped it on the floor behind the armrest.

“When are you leaving?” She asked, her voice soft and sleepy.

“Soon.” He promised.

“Stay as long as you like.” She yawned. “It’s all the same to me.”

Gerard moved a little to the woman as if to get a better look at the television. When their arms touched something happened to the woman. She trembled and sank together. Softened like a punctured coffee packet. Now when she looked over at Gerard it was a mild dreamy gaze.

“Who are you?” She breathed out.

Gerard’s eyes were a few inches away from hers. The hospital smell spread from the woman's mouth.

“I don’t know.” He whispered to her.

The woman nodded and pointed to Gerard’s lap.

“May I?”

“Of course.” He nodded slowly.

Gerard shifted slightly away from the woman and she pulled her legs up onto the couch. Rested her head on Gerard’s thighs. Gerard stroked her hair and they sat like that. Watching the shimmering backs of whales break through the surface of the water. Spurted out a fountain, then disappeared.

“Tell me a story.” She said.

“What do you want to hear?”

“Something beautiful.”

Gerard tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. She breathed slowly and her body was completely relaxed. Gerard spoke in a quiet voice.

“Once upon a time, a long long time ago, there was a poor farmer and his wife. They had three children. A boy and a girl old enough to work together with the adults. And a boy only eleven years old. Everyone who saw him said he was the most beautiful child they had ever seen.” He paused in to draw in a breath.

“The father was in debt to the lord who owned the land. He had to work many days for him. Therefore, it often fell to the mother and the two oldest to look after the house and garden. The youngest boy wasn't good for much.” He thought for a moment.

“One day, the lord announced a competition. All the families who worked the land had to enter. Everyone who had a boy between the ages of eight and twelve. No reward was promised. No prize. Yet it was still called a competition.”

“On the day of the competition, the mother took the youngest boy to the lord's castle. They were not alone. Even other children accompanied by both or one parent had gathered in the courtyard of the castle. Three more came. Poor families. The children dressed in the best clothes they had.

They waited all day in the courtyard. When it was starting to get dark, a man came out and told them they could come in.”

Gerard listened to the woman's breathing. Slow and steady. Deep and regular. She was asleep. Her breath was warm against Gerard’s knee. Right below her ear, Gerard could discern the pulse ticking under her loose, wrinkled skin.

The cat was quiet

The credits for the nature program began to roll. Gerard put a finger on the woman's left carotid artery. It felt like a fluttering bird under her fingertips. Gerard braced himself against the back of the couch and carefully pushed the woman's head forward so it leaned on Gerard’s knees. The sharp smell of roquefort cheese drowned out the other smells. Gerard pulled a blanket from the back of the couch, draped it over the cheeses.

A soft squeaky sound, the woman's breathing. Gerard leaned over and held his nose close to the woman's artery. Soap, sweat, the smell of her skin, hospital, and just beneath this: blood.

The woman sighed when Gerard’s nose brushed against her neck. She started to turn her head, but Gerard wrapped a tight arm around her chest, binding her arms, and the other hand gripped the back of her head and held her still. He opened his mouth as wide as he could, pressed his tongue against the woman’s thumping artery and bit down. Locked his jaws.

The woman jerked as if she had been stung by electricity. She kicked the armrest of the couch with such great force that she managed to catapult herself out of Gerard’s mouth. Her back ended up laid on Gerard’s knees.

The blood spurted rhythmically out of the open wound. Fast as her heartbeat continued, with every thump came another shot. It splashed against the brown leather of the couch. The woman screamed and waved her hands around, pulling the blanket off the cheese on the table. A waft of the cheese scent filled Gerard’s nostrils and he pounced on the woman. Once again, connecting his mouth to the site where blood leaked. Her screamed pierced his ears, but he continued to drink deeply, ignoring the pain in his head.

The womans free hand reached on the table and gripped a wine glass. She smashed it into Gerard’s head. He didn't release her, glass stuck in her hand and on the back of his scalp.

The blood tasted like medication, morphine.

The woman stared up at Gerard's black mass of hair draped over her face, covering her line of sight, with pleading eyes. Now he tasted something rotten. Something worse than the overwhelming scent of the cheese.

Cancer. The woman had cancer.

His stomach churned in revulsion. He had to let her go and push her away in order not to vomit. The woman wasn't screaming anymore. She lay still on the floor, the blood spurting weaker and weaker out of her neck and pooling underneath the coffee table. Her eyes were open and remote as she met Gerard’s gaze.

“Please… please.” She called out hoarsely.

“Excuse me?” He held back his impulse to be sick and leaned closer to her.

“Please…”

“Yes, what is it? What do you want?”

“... please… please.”

After a while, the woman's eyes changed. Stiffened and became unseeing. Gerard closed them and they flew open again. Gerard took the blanket from the floor, shook the broken glass off it and laid it over her face. Sat up straight in the couch.

The blood was palatable, but the morphine. Even though it tasted bad, it wasn't toxic to him. Gerard watched a film beginning. Insects. He shivered. Watched the colors dancing on the screen, the way they mechanically moved, almost brainless.

He tried to get up off the couch, but couldn’t. The image of a web began to twist and turn in more ways than it already was. Stretch out along the screen. Gerard looked around, the whole room had began to lean in a funny way. Gerard wanted the tv to be off. The insects began to make gross, crinkling noises and they ate. He saw the remote on the floor.

_Have to get the bugs to shut up._

He slid off the couch and landed on the floor laid on his belly. Began to crawl to the remote. As soon as he began, his energy ran out. Didn't have the will to continue. He laid his head on the carpet and watched the colors meld together as his eyes became too heavy to hold open on his own. He laid for a moment, until he heard something.

“Gerard?” It called out to him. “ _Gerard_?”

The voice coming from the television was familiar, Gerard tried to back away from it, but his body wouldn't obey him. Only his hands moved around the floor in slow motion, searching for something to hold onto. They found a cord and he squeezed it. Trying to kill the sound like it was a lifeline, his fingertips met each other as he broke through the cord.

“Gerard, where are you?”

His head felt too heavy to lift from the floor. The only action he was able to accomplish was lifting his eyes to the screen. And there Gerard saw _him._

The blonde tendrils of hair from his wig made from human hair fanned out over his silk robe. It made his effeminate face look even smaller than it was. His thin lips were pressed together drawn on his face with red lipstick that looked like a gash from a deep knife cut against his pale face. Gerard managed to lift his head all the way and his eyes were met by his large, childishly blue eyes.

“Gerard?” The other children's voices. Gerard raised his head again, trembling. Drops of the sick blood ran out of his nose and dripped onto his lips, leaked back into his mouth. The man had opened his arms as a warm gesture, revealing the red stitching on the inside of his robe. The red stitches were lips. Hundreds of childrens lips. All painfully whispering their story, Gerard’s story.

“Gerard, come home.”

Gerard sobbed, shut his eyes. Waited for the cold grip around the neck. Nothing happened. Opened his eyes again, the picture on the tv had changed. A long line of poor children wearing rags. Going towards the castle in the snow.

_This isn't happening._

Gerard spit the blood out of his mouth. Little red droplets punctured the ice on the tv. Stained it. Ran down the icy castle.

_It isn't real._

Gerard used the lifeline to pull himself up. He heard a clinking noise as it came loose from the socket and the TV turned off. The picture disappeared. Vicious strands of dark red tinted saliva still stained the dark backdrop. It dripped onto the floor. Gerard rested his head in his hands, disappearing into a dark red whirlpool.

-

 

Gunnar Hayworth was dragging his feet in the snow to avoid leaving any footprints behind in order to not make things any harder for the forensic technicians. It was a pain in the ass enough to pull footprints from snow. He stopped and looked back at the traces that led away from the house. Light from the fire made the snow glow orange. It was so hot and intense that beads of sweat began forming on his hairline.

Hayworth had been teased many times in the past for believing in the natural goodness of young people. That's what he tried to support through his frequent school visits. Through his many many long conversations with youngsters who had made bad choices and that was one reason he was so affected by what he saw in front of him.

The footprints in the snow were made by small feet. Children's feet. Not even what you'd call a young person. These feet were too small. These were children's prints. Small neat prints made at a remarkable length from each other. Someone was running from here. And fast.

In the corner of his eyes he saw the new recruit, Larsson coming towards him.

“Drag your feet for heaven's sake!” He exclaimed.

“Oh sorry.” He mindlessly apologized. Larsson  stared in amazement at the footprints in the snow. He stood close to Haworth. “Damn…”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. Made by a child.”

“But they’re so... Like a triple jump.”

“They’re spaced widely, yes.”

“More than widely. They’re so far apart it’s unbelieveable.” He breathed heavily, the puff of vapor clouding around his head before dissipating. 

“What do you mean?”

“I run a lot and I wouldn’t be able to run like this. More than… for two steps at least. And this goes on the whole way.” He gestured to the trail.

Steven came jogging along past houses. Made his way through the group of curious onlookers who had gathered around. Walked up to the little group in the middle which was just overseeing some paramedics who were maneuvering a covered female corpse on a stretcher into an ambulance.

“How’d it go?” Hayworth asked.

“Uh… went out into the trees… far..  Couldn’t follow them… any further… all the cars… we’ll have to put… the dogs out on it…” He panted heavily, trying to speak while catching his breath.

Hayworth nodded, half his attention on a conversation nearby. A neighbor who was a witness was being questioned on his part of the events he saw

“At first, I thought it was, like, fireworks, you know. Then I saw her hands. Waving in the air. And she came out like this… through the window… she came out.” He mimicked her hands in the air, barely raising his.

“So the window was open?” The officer asked.

“Yes, it was open. And she came out of it. And then the house burned down. That was all burning up behind her and she came out. Oh shit. She was on fire, her whole body and then she walked away from the house-”

“Excuse me. Walked? Not ran?”

“No, that’s what was so damn- she was walking. Waved her arms around like this… in order to… I don’t know. And she stopped. Follow me… she stopped, her whole body on fire. Stopped like this. And looked around real calm. And it was just over. Like that. She didn’t panic or anything. Just fell to the ground. She wasn’t screaming or anything. No sound. Just fell and then that was it. I don’t know. It was so damned strange. That’s when I ran inside. I got blankets to try to put her out, you know. When she was lying there it was. No shit.” He exhaled and rubbed his hand on his chin. Then the man put two sooty hands up to his face, sobbing. The officer put a hand on his shoulder

“We can put together a more official version of this. You sure you didn’t see anyone leaving?” He asked.

The man shook his head and the officer scribbled on his pad

“As I said, we’ll be in touch with you tomorrow. Do you want me to ask a medic to give you something to sleep maybe?”

The man shook his head and rubbed the tears from his eyes, leaving soot on his face.

“No thanks, I have something if I need it.”

Hayworth looked again at the burning house. The firefighters had been effective and now you could hardly see any flames. Only a giant pillar of smoke running into the night sky.

-

Gerard and he were sitting in swings. Holding hands and swinging together. They kept pumping their legs to go higher and higher. They got so high the chains broke loose. But they kept going up. Frank held on tighter to his hand. Gerard turned and whispered to him.

“Frank… Frank?”

He opened his eyes. The light was turned off and the moonlight that poured in past his curtains made everything blue. He shut his eyes again and shifted in his bed. He heard his name being called out again. It was coming from the window. His eyes looked over and he saw the contour of a little head. He pulled off the covers and swung one leg over the edge.

“Wait, stay there. In bed. Can I come in?” He whispered and stopped him from coming any closer.

“Yeah.” Frank rolled over and pulled the sheets up to his chin.

“No.” He hissed. “You have to _say_ it. Say that I can come in.”

“You can come in.” He mumbled.

“Close your eyes.” He pushed his hand against the glass.

Frank shut his eyes and he heard the window open. A cold breeze drifted into the room and he heard Gerard step carefully onto the floor. He closed the window lightly. He could heard Gerard's breathing.

“Can I look now?” Frank felt like he was close to nodding off.

“Wait! Not yet.” He heard Gerard shuffling behind him.

Frank kept his eyes shut as the blanket was lifted off of him and a cold, naked body crept in beside him. Pulled the covers back up and curled into a ball against his back. His forehead pushed in between his shoulder blades. His breath ran warmly down the small of his back. Frank was alone with Gerard. Not alone like in the courtyard surrounded by closed windows. But actually alone. No one else's eyes could access them.

A cold hand crept over his stomach and found its way over to his chest and above his heart. Frank wrapped both hands around it to give the cold hand some warmth. Gerard’s other hand worked its way under his armpit and then up over his chest and in between his hands. Gerard turned his head and laid his cheek between his shoulder blades.

A new smell had entered the room. The faint smell of gasoline. He recognized it from when Dad would take him to the gas station and show him how to fill up a tank. Frank bent his head down and smelled his hands. It was coming from him.

“Where have you been?” He left his nose pressed against the skin. Ignored the intoxicating smell.

“Getting some food.” He whispered.

His lips tickled his shoulder. Frank thought about his dad making fun of guys that had crushes on other guys. His uncles joining in to laugh at the men. He thought about pushing Gerard off him. Telling him they could only be friends. But the will to leave him to hold onto him was stronger. He was more comfortable like this. Didn't want Gerard to let go. As long as his dad wasn't there. After all, they were really alone.

“What about your dad?” He intentionally moved his lips against Gerard's finger.

“Gone.” He spoke, sadly.

“Gone?” Frank turned around, their hands coming apart.

Gerard rolled over and laid on his back. Frank laid on his side. His head propped up on his hand. Staring at his wide eyes curious in the dark. They reflected the moonlight. The sharp curve of his nose was more pronounced against the dim blue light. Goosebumps rose on his arm.

“Hush, it doesn't matter.” Gerard licked his lips. Locked his bottom lip between his teeth and began chewing. He looked like he was about to cry.

“But what is he-”

“It _doesn't_ matter.” He hissed.

Frank nodded agreeing to not ask any more questions. He dropped his head back on the pillow, still looking at his face. Gerard folded his hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling

“I was thinking about you a lot. So I came to you. I hope that was okay.” He let go of his lip.

“Yeah. I’m glad you came. Was starting to worry about where you were. But you're naked.” Frank gestured with his hand to Gerard's bare chest.

“Sorry, is that disgusting?” He didn't seem phased.

“No,” He thought about it before he answered. “But aren't you freezing? Did you come here naked?”

“I'm not cold. My clothes are here.” He pointed to Frank's desk where a folded pile of clothes sat. “They just got a bit messy. That's all.”

Frank looked closer. Gerard looked different again. The white strands in his hair was gone. The cheekbones were once again buried under plump flesh. He looked overall much healthier than he did yesterday. Even in the dark Frank could see that his lips had a slight pink tinge.

“You know what tomorrow is?” He asked.

“Saturday.” He answered simply. “Oh, halloween.” He added.

“Yes, and…” Frank waited, before realizing he hadn't told Gerard.

“And?” He looked over into his eyes.

“My birthday.” He blinked slowly.

“Oh lovely! Shall I get you a gift? Anything you want.” He offered generously.

“Something from the lovers kiosk. Maybe a banana.” Frank joked.

“I'll get you whatever you want.” Gerard said, giggling.

“Nothing really.” He shrugged.

“Okay.” He nodded.

Gerard rolled over and his fingers ran over the spine of the books in the book case that sat next to the bed. Studied the colors, mumbled titles to himself. Frank rolled over. Looked at his white back. Built up the courage. Now that he wasn't looking he could ask.

“Gerard, will you go out with me?” He blurted.

“What does that mean?” He pulled the covers up to his chin.

He shrugged “That you want to be together… with me.”

“What do you mean _together_?” He sounded suspicious

“Oh. Do you not like… I don't know. Maybe you have a girlfriend at your school. Sorry I didn't mean that I like boys or… anything.” Frank felt incredible embarrassed and vulnerable.

“No, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m not a boy anyway.”

‘What do you mean? You’re a girl?” Frank secretly hoped he was, but also prayed to god he wasn’t.

“No, no.”

“Then what are you?”

Gerard thought for a moment. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean _nothing_?”

“I’m nothing, not a child, not old, not a boy, not a girl. Nothing.”

“You don’t have to make stuff up. It’s okay if you don’t want to go out with me. I get it if you don’t like boys or anything. It was stupid, just forget it.” He felt something squirming around in his stomach.

Gerard was silent for a moment and Frank felt like he was going to burst with embarrassment

“Do you do anything particular when you go out with someone?” He finally spoke.

“No.”

“It’s just like normal?”

“Yes.”

Gerard grinned. “I want to go out with you. Be together with you.”

“We can?” Frank felt his stomach flip over.

“Yes.”

Frank smiled and flipped over. He looked Gerard in the face and he looked back.

“Do you want to lay down like we did before?” He asked, his voice soft and tired.

“Yes.”

Frank rolled back around so his back was to Gerard. He put his arms around him and took his hands. They laid like that until Frank’s eyes felt sandy.

“Gerard?”

“Mm?”

“I’m glad you came over.”

“Me too.”

“Why do you smell like gasoline?”

Gerard's hand gripped more tightly around Frank’s. The room grew larger all around them. The walls and ceiling softened. The floor fell away. And when the whole bed felt like it was floating. He knew he was asleep.

-

 

**Saturday October 31**

Gray everything was gray. His eyes wouldn't focus. It was like lying in a rain cloud. Lying? Yes, he was lying down. There was pressure against his back, buttocks, heels. A hissing sound coming from his left side. A hissing. The gas was still on. On? Thought he turned it off. Something happened t o his chest in time of the hissing sound. It filled and emptied in time to that.

Was he still at the pool? This time, was it him hooked up to the gas? How could he be awake then? If he even _was_ awake.

Michael tried to blink. Nothing, almost nothing happened. Something jerked in front of his right eye, murking his sight further. He tried to blink his other eye. It wasn't there. Tried to open his mouth, that wasn't there either. He had conjured up an image in his brain of what his mouth looked like. What he had seen and remembered from mirrors, but it wasn't there. Wasn't present on his face. Nothing responded to his commands. Like trying to make a rock conscious, no connection.

A sensation of strong heat overcame his whole face. A dart of fear was shot into him. His face was plastered with something warm, stiffening. Paraffin wax. A machine was doing his breathing because his whole face was covered in wax.

His thoughts stretched out and met with his right hand. Yes there it was. He opened his hand. Outsprawled his fingers. Made a fist. Stretched his tendons. It was there. He imagined to breathe out a sigh of relief, his breathing no longer under his control.

He lifted his hand slowly, met with a tightening sensation over his chest and shoulder. The hand entered his field of vision. A fuzzy lump. He moved in towards his face, stopped. The low beeping by his side. He carefully turned his head in its direction. Felt something hard scrape against his chin. He moved his hand towards it.

A metal socket was implanted in his throat. A plastic tube fed into the metal socket. He followed the tube with his fingers as far as he could. This is it, he decided. This is how he would die. They had even set it up for him. His fingers rested against the end of the tube.

_Gerard. The pool. The boy. The acid._

His memory was halted at the point where he unscrewed the lid. He must have poured it over himself. All according to plan. The only miscalculation was that he was still alive. Artificially, breathing. But nonetheless, breathing. He had seen pictures of women who had acid thrown in their faces by abusive, jealous boyfriends. He did not want his face to look like that. He didn't want to even feel it, much less see it.

His hold on the tube tightened, wouldn't give way. It was screwed in. He began to unscrew it slowly. Twisted the metal end. It turned. He searched for his left hand, but only sensed a prickling ball of pain where it should have been. With the top of his fingers on his living hand now he felt a light, fluttering pressure. Air was starting to escape from the seal. The flow became thinner.

The gray light around him was infiltrated by something blinking red. He tried to close one eye. Thought about sleeping forever. How nice the release from life would be. A sucking sound as a door was pushed open and a white figure moved toward him. He felt fingers prying open his own. Away from the metal end. A distant womans voice,

“What are you doing? Let go!” A hissing sound when his fingers gave way and the tube was screwed back in place. “We’ll have to guard you from now on.”

-

Gerard was gone when Frank woke up. The sheet lay draped just above his hip. And he lay there, still, staring at the wall until his back got cold and he pulled the blanket back up over himself. Not tired enough to fall back asleep. He drew himself up on one elbow and looked around the room. The window was open a crack. He must have let himself out that way.

_Naked._

He rolled over and pressed his face in the place where he had slept. Sniffed for Gerard’s scent. Nothing. He moved his nose against the sheet. Back and forth. Trying to discern the tiniest glimmer of his presence, but nothing. Not even the smell of gasoline.

Had it really happened? He laid down on his stomach as he thought about it.

Yes.

It was real. His fingers on his back. The memory of his fingers on his back. The now ghost feeling on his body where Gerard’s fingers previously pressed into his skin. The hair on his arms stood up.

He got out of bed and began to pull his clothes on. When he had his pants around his hips he walked over to the window. No snowfall. Still below freezing. Good. if the snow had started to melt, it would be too slushy to walk around and deliver the advertisement packages. He thought about crawling out of the window, naked, into below freezing weather. Down into snow covered bushes. Down into the snow.

But when he looked down, he couldn't believe it. He leaned forward, blinked.

The snow on the bushed was completely undisturbed. Last night when he had stood there he had looked out onto a clean sweep of snow that ran down the path. It looked exactly the same now. He opened the window a little more, stuck his head out. The bushes reached all the way up to the wall below his window, the snow cover as well. It was undisturbed

Frank looked to the left, along the rough surface of the outside wall. His window was ten feet away.

Cold air swept over Frank's naked chest. It must have snowed last night after Gerard had gone back to his room. That was the only explanation. But now that he thought about it, how had he made it _up_ to the window in the first place. Had he climbed up in the bushes?

But then the snow couldn't look like this. And it hadn't been snowing when he’d gone to bed. Neither his body nor his hair was damp when he crawled into Frank's bed. So it couldn't have been snowing then. When did he go?

Frank shut the window, continued to dress. It was unbelievable. He had started to think he dreamt the whole thing up again. Then he saw the note. Folded small and left under the clock on his desk. He swiped it and quickly unfolded it.

_**Then window, let day in and let life out.** _

A heart was drawn.

_**See you tonight. Gerard.** _

He read the note five times over. Again and again. Then he thought about Gerard, standing here by his desk as he wrote it. He read the short note three times over again, folded it, and put it in his pocket. Put on the last of his clothes. Today there could be five papers in each advertising packet as far as he was concerned. Still would be easy as pie.

-

When it was starting to get dark, Ray and his mom went to the graveyard. His dad’s grave was adjacent to a creek that lead to the lake, about ten feet away from it. His mom was quiet until they reached the road that ran parallel from his grave and he thought it was because she was grieving.

“You know, Ray...” She coughed.

“What?” He looked at her.

“Steven says that something has gone missing since we were last at his apartment.” She sniffed and shook her hair out of her face.

“Oh.” He didn’t even feel like smiling about it.

“Do you know anything about that?” She nudged him with her arm.

“Yeah,” He was beginning to feel increasingly annoyed with her. “It’s lying under his balcony.” Ray scooped up some snow, made it into a ball and threw it at a tree. Bullseye.

“It’s quite important to him because-”

“I said it was in the bushes under his balcony.” He fought the urge to yell at her.

“How’d it get there?” She looked at the ground, watched her feet pass each other.

A section of snow covered wall around the graveyard came into view. A soft red light illuminated the pine trees from below. The grave lantern that Ray’s mom was carrying clinked as she walked.

“Do you have a light?” He asked her, knowing if he answered the question she wouldn’t stop talking about him.

“A light?” She looked up quickly at him, brows furrowed. “Oh! Yes, I have a lighter. How did it-”

“I dropped it.” He didn’t care for a cigarette anymore. Didn’t want her lighter. Wanted her to leave him alone.

Once Ray was in the gates he stopped in front of the map. The different sections were marked with different letters. His dad was in section D. If you thought about it it was pretty sick to do this actually. Burn people up. Collect the ashes. Bury them in the ground and mark the site grave 104 section D.

Almost three years ago. Ray had fuzzy memories of the funeral, or whatever you’d call it. That thing with a coffin and a bunch of people alternating between crying and singing. He remembered he’d been wearing the shoes that were too big for him, Dad’s shoes. His feet slipped and slid around inside of them on the way home. That he had been afraid of the coffin. Sat staring at it the whole time, sure his dad was going to rise out of it and come alive again.

Two weeks after the funeral he had gone around with a paralyzing fear of zombies, especially when it was dark. He looked in the shadows, thought he could make out the shriveled being in the hospital bed, who was no longer his dad coming at him. His arms stiffly held open in front of him, like in the movies.

The terror had stopped after they had interred the urn. It had only been him, mom, the gravedigger, and the minister. The grave digger had carried the urn and walked with a dignified stride while the minister comforted his mom. The whole thing was so fucking ridiculous. The little wooden box with a lid that a guy in carpenter overalls carried in from of him as he walked. That this had anything to do with his dad. It was one big joke.

But the terror had lifted and Ray's relationship with the grave had changed. Now he sometimes came here alone, sat a while by the gravestone, and ran his fingers across the carved letters that formed his father’s name. That was what he came for. Not the box in the ground, but the name.

The distorted person in the hospital bed, the ashes in the box, none of that was Dad. But the name referred to the person he could remember and therefore he sometimes sat there and rubbed his fingers over the depressions in the stone that formed the name.

How beautiful it is.

Ray looked out over the graveyard.

Small candles were lit all over. A small city viewed from an airplane. Here and there dark figures moved around the graves. Mom walked in the direction of Dad’s grave, the lantern dangling by her hip. He looked at her thin back and was suddenly sad. Not for him or his mom. But for everyone. For the people walking here with their flickering lights in the snow. Themselves only shadows that sat next to the headstones. Looking at the inscriptions. Touching it. It was just so stupid.

Dead is dead. Gone.

Even so, Ray walked over to his mom and crouched next to Dad’s grave while she lit the lantern. Didn’t want to touch the letters in his name while she was there. They sat like that for a while and watched the weak flicker make the shading in the marble block crawl and move. Ray didn’t feel anything but a certain amount of embarrassment. To think he went along with this pretend play. After a moment he stood up and began walking home.

His mom followed a little too soon. As far as he was concerned, she could cry her eyes out sit there all night. She caught up with him and put her arm through his. He let her. They walked side by side and looked out over the lake, ice had started to form over. If this cold kept up, you’d be able to skate on it in a couple of days.

One thought kept going through his head like a stubborn guitar riff.

Dead is dead. Dead is dead. Dead is dead.

His mom shivered and pressed against him.

“It’s awful.” She said.

“You think?” Ray asked.

“Yes, Steven told me such an awful thing.” She nodded.

“I see.” She couldn’t keep from mentioning him here at such a place.

“Did you hear about that house that burned down? That woman who-”

“Yes.” He nodded once.

“Steven told me that they did an autopsy on her. I think that kind of thing is so awful. That they do those things.” She shivered.

“Yes, sure.” He agreed, even though he knew autopsies were done when they needed to be done.

A duck was walking on the thin ice towards the open water that had formed near a drain that led out into the lake. The small fishes you could catch in the summer smelled like sewage.

“Where does that drain lead from?” He asked. “Does it come from the crematorium?”

“I don’t know. Don't you want to hear about it? Do you think it's _so_ awful?"

“No, no.” He shook his head slowly. "Don't think it's awful. But I'll hear about it."

And she told him while they walked through the woods together. After a while, Ray got interested and started asking questions Mom couldn’t answer. She only knew what Steven had told her. In fact, Ray became so interested, asked so many questions that she regretted having brought it up.

-

Later that evening, Ray squatted like a perched bird on a crate in the storage room. Turning the small likeness of the man firing a pistol this way and that. He placed the statuette on top of three boxes containing the stolen cassette tapes. Like a cherry on top.

Stolen… from a policeman.

He carefully closed the gate to the storage area and clicked the padlock back on. Put the key back in its hiding place. Sat down in his sagging armchair and began thinking about what his mother had told him. After a while he heard slow, steady steps coming closer from the corridor. Then a small voice that called his name out from the other side of the door. He stood up out of the armchair and opened the door. Frank was standing on the other side of it, looking nervous. He held out a bill.

“Here’s your money.” He pushed the folded money into Ray’s chest.

“No, I thought I told you to keep it. Happy birthday, little man.” He ruffled his hair. “You going to become a regular here? Wanna come in?” He stepped back to invited him in.

“Sure.” Frank nodded and walked past him. He looked around for Brian and Leo, making sure they weren’t present.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you.” Ray grunted as he pushed the heavy door shut.

“Okay.” Frank sat down on the couch, middle seat again, hands clasped. Ray flopped into the armchair, looked at him.

“You’re a smart guy.” Frank shrugged modestly. “You know that house that just burned down? The granny who ran out to the garden in flames?”

“Uh huh, I’ve read about it. In the paper.” He slid his body down and began to relax in the seat.

“Thought you would.” Ray nodded. “Have they written anything about the autopsy?”

“Not that I know of.” Frank shook his head. “I haven't read or seen anything like that. Did you read that somewhere?”

“No, I haven’t. But I know they’ve done one. An autopsy. And you know what? They didn't find any smoke in her lungs, you know what that means?” Ray raised his eyebrows.

“She wasn’t breathing.” Frank answered immediately.

“Right. And when do you stop breathing? When you’re dead, right?” Ray swallowed hard and sat up straight in his chair.

“Yeah.” Frank crossed his arms over his chest, holding onto his shoulders. “I’ve read about that kind of stuff. That’s why they always do an autopsy when there was a fire. To makes sure that no one started the fire to cover up that they actually murdered the person. In the fire.” Frank took a deep breath to continue talking but Ray put his hand up.

“Okay, okay. So, you know. Great. But there wasn’t any smoke in her lungs. And the granny managed to get herself out into the garden and run around out there for a while before she died. How can that even happen?” Ray asked, his hands landing in his hair.

"She must’ve been holding her breath… no. You can't do that.” He lifted his own hands up to his head and pulled his jacket's hood down further to the middle of his forehead. “I read about that too. I don't understand.” Frank leaned his head in his hands and thought hard. “Either they made a mistake or else she was running around like that even though she was dead.”

“Exactly. And you know what? I don’t think these dudes make those kind of mistakes, do you?” He leaned in closer to Frank, who began to look more and more confused.

“No, but-”

“Dead is dead.” Ray leaned back into his chair.

“Yes.” Frank didn’t know what else to say.

“Yes,” He repeated him. “At least that’s what we like to think.”


	3. Snow, melting against skin.

 

**Thursday, November 5**

Frank was walking with his teacher. He needed to talk to someone and his teacher was the only one he could think of. Even so, he would have switched groups given the chance. Dominic and Ethan usually never chose the walking group during field trips, but today they had. They had whispered something about him this morning, looking at him. So Frank walked with his teacher. Not sure the reason, whether for protection or just because he needed to talk to a grownup.

He and Gerard had been going steady for five days now. They met every evening, outside. Yesterday evening Gerard had come through his window again. They laid, holding each other for hours. Telling fantasy stories that began where the other person previously left off. They had fallen asleep with their arms around each other. When Frank woke up, Gerard was gone. He had asked him how he got up in through the window. Gerard said he had flew in. Frank laughed, too tired to make him tell him how he actually got inside.

In his pocket, next to the old well thumbed old one, there was a new note. He found it on his desk this morning as he dressed to go to school. He decided to store it along with the old, wrinkling note.

_**I must be gone and live or stay and die. Yours, Gerard.** _

He knew it was a quote from Romeo and Juliet. Gerard had told him that’s where the previous note came from. Frank checked out the book from the school library and read it. He liked it quite a bit even though there were a lot of words he didn’t understand. Her vestal livery is but sick and green . Did Gerard understand those words?

Dominic, Ethan, Lucas, and some girls were walking far behind Frank, talking and laughing with each other. They passed China Park where some daycare kids were sledding, their sharp cries slicing through the air. Frank kicked at a clump of snow and shoved his gloved hands into his pocket. He regretted not bringing the waterproof ones, the snow melting and seeping in the material, wetting his hands.

“Marie-Louise?” He lowered his voice, feeling suddenly intensely secure.

“Yes?” Her sweet voice came out in a puff of vapor.

“How do you know when you’re in love? Is there a way to know?” He looked up at her face, her nose slowly changing into a shade of pink.

“Oh Frank, I-” Marie Louise put her hands in her pockets of her duffel coat and glanced up at the sky. Frank wondered if she was thinking of that guy who came by the school after and waited for her. Frank thought he looked like a creep. “It depends on who you are, but… I would say that it’s when you know… or at least believe that this is the person you always want to be with.”

“You mean when you can’t live without the other person?” He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Yes _exactly_. Two who can’t live without the other. Isn’t that what love is?” She looked down at him.

“Like Romeo and Juliet?” He smiled, looking ahead.

“Yes!” She laughed, feeling like Frank was mature for his age and a good conversationalist. “And The Bigger Obstacles. Have you seen it?”

“Read it.” His teacher gave him the small smile she always had. He usually found it comforting, but now it just looked disconcerting. “What if it’s two guys?” He said quickly

“Then that's friendship. That’s also a form of love. Or if you mean… well two guys can also love each other that way.” She began to squirm in her coat.

“How do they do it?” He swallowed hard.

“Well, not that there’s anything wrong with it.” The teacher lowered her voice. “But if you want to talk more about it, we’ll have to come back to it another time.

“Okay.” He whispered, the surprise she had was obviously conveyed to him. Once he picked it up, his ears felt hot under his hood and he felt embarrassed. Even went as far as regretting bringing the part about two boys up.

They walked a few paces in silence, Frank wanted to sink into the snow. They arrived at the hill that led down to the bay. Ghost Hill, they called it. Marie Louise drew in the smell of pine forest deep into her lungs. She looked back down at him, the rounded end of his nose exposed from the side of his thick, hood. Slight streams of vapor came from his nostrils as he exhaled. They looked shaky, ragged. She regretted acting so impulsively to his question about same love. She felt the need to reach out and wrap her arm around him, but decided against it.

“You form a covenant with someone, a union.” She spoke slowly and low, so only Frank could hear. He brang in a sharp inhale, but she kept going. “Regardless of whether you’re a boy or girl. You form a covenant that … that’s just for you and that person. Something just for the two of you.” She looked ahead again.

Frank nodded, feeling a bit relieved that Marie Louise still seemed to like him. Speaking wasn’t an option at that moment, he felt like he was about to cry. He heard the girls voices getting closer. Soon they would come and claim the teacher's attention. That's what normally happened. He was walking so close to her that their coats touched.

“Can you be a boy and a girl at the same time? Or neither?” He asked, still looking at the snowy ground ahead.

“No. Not people. There are some kinds of animals that-”

“Miss!” Michelle ran up to them and shouted in her squeaky voice. “Dominic put snow down my back! It got in my sweater too!” She complained while pulling her jacket off her shoulders.

They were halfway down the hill. Shortly thereafter all the girls were there and had told Mary Louise what Dominic and Ethan had done to them.

Frank slowed down, allowed himself to fall back a few paces. He turned around. Dominic, Ethan, and Lucas were at the top of the hill. They waved to Frank, who didn’t wave back. Instead he reached for a big branch on the side of the path, stripping the small twigs off as he walked. The girls and the teacher played tag, running down the path along the water. He wasn’t planning to catch up with them. He knew the boys were behind him, getting closer. He gripped his stick tightly, kept going.

It was a beautiful day. The ice had formed over the lake a few days ago. Mr. Avila was taking the other group ice skating on it, mostly younger kids. When Frank heard Dominic, Ethan, and Lucas had joined the walking group, he seriously considered rushing home and grabbing a pair of skates. He hadn’t bought a new pair in over two years and he knew they’d be much too small anyway. His feet wouldn’t fit inside.

He was also scared of the ice.

When Frank was little he had been out with his dad, as he checked the fish traps. Frank sat on the dock and watched his father. Saw him fall through the ice and how, for a terrifying second, his head disappeared underwater. Frank was alone on the dock, began screaming at the top of his lungs for help. Fortunately, his dad had a rescue ice pick on him that he used to haul himself out. After that, Frank didn’t like to go out on the ice.

Someone grabbed him by the arms.

He quickly turned his head. Saw that his teacher and the girls had disappeared around the curve of the path. Out of sight. Behind the hill.

“Bitch is gonna take a bath.” Dominic snarled.

Frank grabbed the stick even more firmly. Locking his hands around it. His only chance. They picked him up and began dragging him towards the water.

“Bitch smells like shit and needs a wash.” Dominic continued.

“Let me go!” Frank gasped, his eyes widening. He began to struggle, but Ethan was too strong.

“Later. Take it easy. We’ll let you go later.” Lucas said, following them.

Then they were on the ice. There was nothing for him to brace his feet against. They dragged him backwards. Towards the sauna bathing hole. His heels made double tracks in the snow. In between them, he dragged the stick, drawing a shallower line in the middle. Farther away in the ice, he saw figures moving. Thought about calling for help. Realized how embarrassing that would be. Dominic caught sight of him looking.

“Go ahead.” He smirked. “Holler away. Maybe they'll come in time to pull you out.”

The open water gaped darkly in front of him only a few steps away. Frank tensed all the muscles he could muster and threw himself to the side. Twisting with a sudden, wrenching motion. Ethan lost his grip. Frank dangled in Dominic's arms. He swung the stick at his shins and Dominic let go.

“Ow, damn.” He hissed, holding his shin. Frank fell to the ice. He got up at the edge of the hole in the ice, holding the stick in both hands. “Fucking idiot. Now I’ll fucking…”

“Don’t come closer.” Frank whispered, believing the low sound hadn’t traveled far enough to meet his ears. Dominic approached him slowly. Probably scared of falling through the ice himself. He pointed at the stick.

“Put that down or I'll kill you.”

Frank clenched his teeth. When Dominic was a little more than arms length away, he swing the stick against his shoulder. Dominic ducked and Frank felt a mute thwuck in his hands as the stick hit Dominic straight in the ear. He fell straight to the side like a bowling pin, landing outstretched  and howling in pain.

“What the hell..” Ethan who was a couple steps behind Dominic now started to back up, holding his hands up. “We were just having some fun. I didn't think-” He started to breathe raggedly.

Frank walked closer to Ethan and Lucas holding the stick like a baseball bat. They both turned around and ran back to shore. Frank stopped and lowered his stick.

Dominic lay curled up on his side with his hand cupped tightly over his ear. Blood was trickling from between his fingers. It fell onto the ice and stained it. Frank felt a pang of guilt in his throat along with the want to apologize. He hadn't meant to hurt him so bad. He crouched down to say he was sorry, then he saw him.

He was so small, curled up into a fetal position whimpering. While a thin trickle of blood ran down inside the collar of his coat. He was slowly turning his head back and forth. Frank looked at him in wonder. That tiny bleeding bundle on the ice wouldn't be able to do anything to him. Couldn't hit or tease him. Couldn't even defend itself.

_I could whack him a few more times. Then it's all over._

Frank stood up and leaned on the stick. The rush was ebbing away, replaced by a feeling of nausea. It welled up deep inside of his stomach. What had he done? Dominic must really be hurt to be bleeding like that. What if he bled to death? Frank sat down on the ice again, pulled off one of his gloves and crawled closer to him. He sat on his legs and poked the hand that was cupping the ear. Dominic flinched and looked up with pleading eyes, Frank pushed the glove between his hand and his ear.

“Here, take this.”

Dominic didn't look mad. He looked terrified. He held the glove tighter against his ear and hissed at the contact. Frank saw a grown up approaching quickly on skates.

Shrill screams from far away. Children screaming in panic. A single, shrill call was joined by others after a few seconds. The person who had been on his way over stopped. Stood motionless, looking back and forth. Turned and went toward the children.

Frank was still kneeling beside dominic. Felt the snow melting and dampening his knees. Dominic had his eyes shut as he whimpered from clenched teeth. Frank lowered his face closer and caressed the back of his head, holding it up so he could see him.

“Can you walk?” He spoke with his mouth close to his ear.

Dominic opened his mouth to say something and a yellow and white colored liquid dribbled out from between his lips. A little landed on Frank’s hand. He looked at the drops that quivered on the back of his hand and became really scared. He dropped the stick and began running for help.

The children's screams had increased in volume and he ran towards them.

-

Mr. Avila enjoyed ice skating. He appreciated the long winters. When the ice froze over, he liked to come out and skate and had only recently convinced the school to allow a field trip to the lake. It had been three years since the lake had last frozen over. But he had high hopes when the winter temperatures dropped so early. He knew the lake would soon be filled with people during the day. He prefered to skate at night anyway.

A little boy was tugging at his pant leg

“Teacher, I have to pee.”

Avila woke from his skating dreams and looked around. He pointed at a cusp of trees. The bare branches made a sort of shield from the ice.

“There. You can go there.”

“On the ice?” The little boy squinted at the trees.

“Yes, what’s wrong with that? Makes new ice yellow.”

The boy looked at Avila like he was crazy, but skated away towards the trees. He looked around and made sure none of his kids had wandered off too far. He did a quick headcount. Nine plus the one who was peeing. Ten.

He turned and looked a few meters away. There was a group of boys moving towards an open hole in the ice. He continued watching as the group disbanded. One of them was holding a stick. The stick was swung after a moment and the one who was struck fell down. Began screaming. He checked his own group before going towards them. The other two began running over to shore.

That was when he heard the scream.

The piercing scream of one of the children from his group. The snow spurted up around his blades as he made an abrupt halt. He had managed to ascertain that the kids by the hole were older. Maybe Frank. Older boys. They would manage. His charges were younger.

The screams intensified when he turned back to his group. He pushed faster as he heard more children join in the screaming.

Something had happened the exact moment he had left. He skated as fast as he could, hoping to god the ice had not given way. The snow whirled around his blades as he sprinted towards the noise source. He now saw many children had gathered around. Were standing and screaming in a hysterical choir of some sort and more were on their way. He saw another adult moving towards it.

With a few final strong pushes he finally landed behind the group. As he stopped, his blades tossed a bit of snow onto the childrens jackets. He didn't understand. They were gathered around screaming at a piece of ice under a few scraggly branches. He leaned closer in.

“What is it?”

One of the children pointed to where to look and Avila followed his small finger. It looked like a clump of grass and dirt frozen inside. Red dirt. As he scanned over it, an open eye came into view and he gasped as his brain began to register it. The forehead was pushed close up against the ice, almost as if it was about to burst through.

The boy who he had sent here to pee was sitting on the ice a few meters away, sobbing.

“I-I-I-I-I-I-I ra-a-an into it” He was hyperventilating, trying to speak.

Avila straightened up

“Get away! Everyone goes back to land now!”

The children remained as if they were frozen in place. The little ones continued crying. He took out his whistle and blew into it sharply twice. The screams and crying stopped. He took a few pushed to position himself behind the children in order to herd them to shore. The children went. Only one fifth grader remained. Staring, full of curiosity.

“You too.” Avila gestured to him with his hand, indicating he should come over. Once they were all to shore he signalled to a woman walking past. “Call the police. An ambulance. There is a body frozen into the ice.”

The woman ran back up the path. Avila counted the children on land. Nine. One was missing. The boy who had run into the head was still sitting on the ice with his face in his hands. Avila glided out to him and lifted him up by his armpits. The boy turned around and put his arms around Avila. He lifted the boy and held him as if he were a fragile gift. He carried him back to shore.

-

“Can I talk to him?” A detective loomed over the small nurse.

“He can’t actually talk.” She waved her hands, slightly cringing.

“No?” The detective scratched in his beard, thinking. “But he understands what is said to him?”

“I would think so but-”

“Just for a little while?” He leaned down, closer to her face. She chewed on her lip for a second before nodding and stepping out of his way.

Through the fog that clouded his vision, Michael saw a man in dark clothes pull up a chair and sit down next to him. He could not make out the man’s features, but there was a serious expression on his face.

The last few days, Michael had been floating in and out of a red cloud, scored with black lines as thin as hairs. He knew they had operated on him a few times. Recognized the anesthesia feeling. This was the first day he was fully conscious but he didn't know how many days had passed since he got here.

Earlier this morning, Michael had been exploring his new face with the fingers on his feeling hand. A rubber like bandage covered his whole face. But what he was able to make out from painfully exploring his features he came to a conclusion. He had no face.

Michael Way no longer existed. All that was left of him was an unidentifiable body lying in a hospital bed. They would of course be able to connect him to the other murders. But not to his earlier or present life. Not to Gerard.

“How are you feeling?” The detective asked, sighing as he began to remove his gloves.

‘ _Oh, very well officer. Thank you. Couldn’t be better. It feels as if someone has applied burning napalm to my face but other than that I can’t complain._ ’

"Yes, I understand that you can't speak, but perhaps you can nod if you hear what I am saying? Can you nod?"

“ _I can, but I don't want to._ ”

The man next to his bed sighed.

"You tried to kill yourself by doing this, so clearly you are not completely gone. Is it hard for you to raise your head? Can you lift your hand if you hear me? Can you lift your hand?"

Michael disconnected himself from all thoughts of the policeman and instead started to think about the place in Dante's Hell, Limbo, where all the great souls from Earth without knowledge of Christ went after death. Tried to imagine the place in detail.

"We would like to know who you are, you see." His voice broke through.

Which circle did Dante himself go to after death ...

The policeman pulled his chair even closer.

"We'll find that out, you know. Sooner or later. You could save us some legwork by communicating with us now."

‘ _No one misses me. No one knows me. Go ahead, try_.’

A nurse came in. "There's a telephone call for you."

The policeman stood up, walked over to the door. Before he walked out he turned around.

"I'll be back."

Michael's thoughts now returned to more significant matters. Which circle was he destined for? The circle of child murderers? That was the seventh circle. On the other hand, maybe the first circle. Those who sinned for love's sake. Then, of course, the sodomites had their own circle. The most reasonable thing would be to assume you went to the circle that represented your worst crime. Therefore: if you had committed an absolutely terrible crime you could thereafter sin away all you liked with the crimes punished in higher circles. It couldn't get worse. Like murderers who were sentenced to three hundred years in prison.

The different circles whirled in their spiral patterns. The funnel of Hell. Cerberus with his tail. Michael imagined the violent men, the bitter women, the proud ones in their boiling pots, in their fire rain, wandering among them, looking for their place. One thing he was completely sure of. He would never end up in the lowest circle. The one where Lucifer himself chewed on Judas and Brutus, standing in a sea of ice. The circle of traitors.

The door opened again, with that strange, sucking sound. The policeman sat down next to the bed.

"Hello again. It seems like they've found another one, down by the lake near China Park. Same rope, in any case."

‘ _No!_ ’

Michael's body flinched involuntarily when the policeman said China Park. The policeman nodded. "Apparently you can hear me. That's good. We can assume you live in the western neighborhoods then. Where?"

The memory of how he had disposed of the man down by the hospital raced through his head. He had been sloppy. He had screwed up.

"Alright, then. I’ll leave you alone. You can think about if you want to cooperate. It'll be easier that way. Don't you think? I sure do."

The policeman stood up and left. In his place a nurse came in and sat down in the chair, keeping watch.

Michael started to toss his head from side to side, in denial. His hand went out and started to tug on the tube to the respirator. The nurse quickly jumped up and tore his hand away.

"We'll have to tie you up. One more time and we'll tie you up. If you don't want to live that's on your head, but as long as you're _here_ our job is to keep you _alive_. No matter what you have or haven't done. We will do what we have to in order to get through this even if it means putting restraints on you. Do you hear me? Everything will be better for you if you cooperate."

Cooperate. _Cooperate._  Suddenly everyone wants to _cooperate._  I am no longer a person. I am a project. Oh, my God. Gerard, help me.

-

Frank heard his mom's voice as soon as he was in the stairwell. She was talking to someone on the phone, and she sounded angry. Dominic's mom? He stopped outside the door and listened.

"They’re gonna call me, ask me what _I’m_ doing wrong.. oh _yes,_  they _will_ , and what do I say? Sorry, but you see, my boy doesn't have a father and that… Then take responsibility for it!... No, you haven't... I think you should talk to him about this."

Frank unlocked the door and stepped into the hall. His mom said, "That's him now" into the receiver and turned to Frank.

"The school called. You need to talk to your father about this because I can hardly stand it." She talked into the receiver again. "Now you can... I am calm! . . . It's easy for you to say, sitting out there."

Frank went into his room, lay down on his bed and put his hands over his face. It felt like his heart was beating in his head, swelling his brain. When he'd finally gotten inside the hospital he had initially thought that all the people running around had something to do with Dominic. But it had turned out that wasn't it. Today he had seen a real life dead person for the first time in his life. It made him feel weird inside his chest.  His mom opened the door to his room. Frank removed his hands from his head.

"Your father wants to talk to you."

Frank held the receiver to his ear and heard a distant voice reciting the names of lighthouses and wind strength, wind direction. He waited with the receiver to his ear without saying anything. His mom frowned and looked questioningly at him. Frank put his hand over the earpiece and whispered. "The marine weather report."

His mom opened her mouth as if to say something, but only came out with a sigh and let her hands drop. She breathed in sharply through her nostrils and steadily out of her mouth. She walked out into the kitchen. Frank sat down on the chair in the hall and listened to the marine weather report along with his dad.

He knew his dad would remain distracted by what was said on the radio if Frank tried to start a conversation now. The sea report was holy. Those times he was at his dad's, all activity in the house came to a stop at 16:45 and his dad sat down next to the radio while staring absently out over the fields, as if to check that what they were saying on the radio was true. It was a long time since his dad had been at sea, but old habits died hard.

“Northwest eight, toward evening turning to the west. Good visibility. The Atlantic Sea and east area northwest ten, toward evening warning for gale-force winds. Good visibility.”

There. The most important part of it was over.

"Hi Dad." Frank said.

"Oh, it's you. Hi there. We're going to have gale-force winds here toward evening."

"Uh-huh, I heard."

"Hm. How are things?"

"Good."

"You know, your mom just told me about this thing with uh… Dominic. That doesn't sound so good."

"No, it doesn’t."

"He got a concussion?"

"Yeah, he threw up."

"That's common. Nicholas, you've met him. He took the lead weight in the side of the head once and he- well, he lay there on deck and was sick as a calf after that."

"Was he alright?"

"Sure he was. Well, he died last spring. But that wasn't anything to do with that. No, he got better real fast."

"Good."

"And we'll have to hope the same goes for this boy, too."

"Yup.”

The voice on the radio kept reciting names of various sea regions. Bering and all the rest. A couple of times he had sat at his dad's place with an atlas in front of him and followed all the lighthouses as they were named. For a while he knew all the places by heart, in order, but he had since forgotten them. His dad cleared his throat.

"Your mom and I were talking about you. If you wanted to come out and see me this weekend."

"Sure."

"So we could talk more about this and about... everything."

"This weekend?"

"Yes, if you feel like it."

"Okay. But I have a- what about Saturday?"

"Or Friday night."

"No, I’ve got a thing. How’s Saturday? Morning."

"That sounds good. I'll take an eider duck out of the freezer."

Frank pressed the mouthpiece closer and whispered. "Preferably without shot."

His dad laughed.

Last fall when Frank had been out at his place he had broken a tooth on some shot left in a seabird that they had eaten. He had told his mom it was a stone in a potato. Sea bird was Frank's favorite food, but his mom thought it was "terribly cruel" to shoot such defenseless birds. If she knew he had broken a tooth on the instrument of murder itself it might lead to a moratorium on eating that kind of food altogether.

"I'll check extra carefully." Dad said.

"Is the moped running?"

"Yes, why?"

"I was just thinking about it."

"I see. Well, there's a fair amount of snow so we can probably make a round."

"Good."

"OK, I'll see you on Saturday. You'll take the seven o'clock bus."

"Yeah."

"I'll come meet you. With the moped. The car isn’t running."

"Okay, great. Are you going to talk more to Mom?"

"Uh... no. You can tell her our plans, right?"

"Uh-huh. See you."

"That you will. Bye."

Frank put the phone down. Sat there for a little while and imagined how it was going to be. Taking the moped out for a ride. That was fun. Frank would strap on the mini-skis and they attached a rope to the moped carrier with a stick at the other end. Frank held the tow rope with both hands and then he motored around the village like a snow borne waterskier. This as well as duck with rowanberry jelly. And only one night away from Gerard.

He went to his room and packed up his workout gear, plus his knife, since he wasn't coming home before meeting Gerard. He had a plan. When he was standing in the hall putting his coat on his mom came out of the kitchen and swiped her floury hands on the apron.

"So? What did he say?"

"I'm going to see him Saturday."

"Alright, but what about the other thing?"

"I have to go work out now."

"He didn't say anything else?"

"Um, no, but I have to go now."

"Where?"

"The pool."

"What pool?"

"The one next to our school. The little one."

"What are you doing there?"

"Working out. I'll be back around half past eight. Or nine. I'm meeting Marcus afterwards."

His mom looked dismayed, didn't know what to do with her floury hands and stuck them both in the big pocket on the front of the apron.

"Okay. Be careful. Don't trip on the side of the pool or anything. Do you have your hat with you?"

“Yeah.”

"Well, put it on. When you've been in the water, it's cold out and your hair is wet and-"

Frank took a step forward, kissed her lightly on the cheek and said "good-bye," and left. When he came out of the front door to the building he glanced up at his window. His mom was standing there, with her hands still pushed into the big apron pocket. Frank waved. His mom slowly lifted up a hand and waved back.

He cried half the way to the pool.

-

He had said a quick goodbye the others outside the gymnasium and started to head home when he heard his voice coming from the school.

"Psst. Frank!"

Footsteps on stairs and he emerged from the shadows. He had been sitting there, waiting. Then he heard him say goodbye to the others and how they answered as if he was a completely normal person.

The workout session had been good. He wasn't as weak as he had thought, was able to do more than a couple of the guys who had been there several times before. And his concern that Mr. Avila would interrogate him about what had happened out there on the ice today turned out to be unfounded. Mr. Avila had simply asked "Do you want to talk about it?" and when Frank shook his head they left it at that.

The gym was another world, separate from school. Mr. Avila was less severe and the other guys left him alone. Ethan hadn't been there, of course. Was Ethan scared of him now? The thought was enough to make his head spin.

He walked over to meet Gerard.

"Hi."

"Hey."

Without saying anything about it they had switched their words of greeting. Gerard was wearing a checkered shirt that was much too big for him and he looked shriveled again. His skin was dry and his face thinner. Even yesterday Frank had seen the first white hairs sprout from his head and tonight there were many more.

When he was healthy Frank thought he was the cutest boy he had seen. But the way he looked right now was wrong. You couldn't compare him to anyone. No one looked like that. Dwarves, maybe. But dwarves weren't thin like that. Nothing was.

"How's it going?" Frank asked.

"So so."

"Want to do something?"

"Of course." Gerard smiled, though he looked pained.

They walked home side by side. Frank had a plan. They were going to enter into a pact together. If they entered into a pact together, Gerard would become healthy. A magical thought, inspired by the books he had read. But magic, surely there was a little magic in the world. The people who denied the existence of magic, they were the ones that it went badly for.

They walked into the yard. He touched Gerard's shoulder.

"Should we check the garbage room?"

"Alright."

They walked in through Gerard's front door and Frank unlocked the door to the basement.

"Don't you have a basement key?" He asked.

"I don't think so." Gerard shrugged.

It was pitch black in the basement entrance. The door slammed shut behind them with a heavy sound. They stood still, side by side, breathing.

"Gerard, you know what? Today ... Dominic and Ethan tried to throw me into the water. Into a hole in the ice." Frank whispered.

"No! You—"

"Wait. Do you know what I did? I had a stick, a big stick. I hit Dominic in the head with it so he started to bleed. He got a concussion, went to the hospital. I never ended up in the water. I beat him."

Quiet for a few moments. Then Gerard spoke.

"Frank?"

"Yes."

"Yippee."

Frank stretched his hand to the light switch; he wanted to see his face. Turned it on. He was staring straight into his eyes and he saw Gerard’s pupils. For a few moments before they got used to the light they looked like those crystals they talked about in physics class, elliptical. Like a cat’s.

Gerard blinked. His pupils were normal again.

"What is it?"

"Nothing. Come on."

Frank walked over to the bulk item trash room and opened the door. The bag was almost full, hadn't been emptied for a while. Gerard squeezed in beside him and they rummaged through the trash. Frank found a bag with empty bottles that you could get a deposit back on. Gerard found a plastic sword, waved it around.

"Should we check the one next door?" Gerard asked.

"No, I don’t think we should. Ray and those guys might be there."

"Who are they?"

"Oh, some older guys who use a basement storage unit. They hang out there sometimes."

"Are there a lot of them?"

"No, three. Most of the time it's just Ray."

"And they're dangerous?" Gerard asked. Frank shrugged. "Let's check it out, then."

They walked out through Frank's building into the next basement corridor, all the way into Ray's building. As Frank stood there with a key in his hand, about to unlock the last door, he hesitated. If they were in there? If they caught sight of Gerard? It could turn into something he wasn't able to handle. Gerard held the plastic sword in front of him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

He unlocked the door. As soon as they walked into the corridor he heard music coming from the storage unit. As he turned to him he whispered.

"They're here! Come on."

Gerard stopped, sniffed. "What's that smell?"

Frank checked to make sure that nothing was moving around at the other end of the corridor, then sniffed the air. Couldn't smell anything except the usual basement air. Gerard said, "Paint, glue." Frank sniffed again. He couldn't smell it but he knew what it had to be. When he turned back to Gerard to get him to follow him he saw that he was doing something with the lock.

"Come on. What are you doing?"

“I’m just. . .”

As Frank was unlocking the door to the next basement corridor, their path of retreat, the door fell shut behind them. It didn't make the normal sound. No click, just a metallic clunk. On the way back to their basement he told Gerard about glue-sniffing; how crazy those guys could get when they did that.

He felt safe again in his own basement. He knelt down and started to count the bottles in the bag. Fourteen beer bottles and a liquor bottle with no deposit value.

When he looked up to report this to Gerard he was standing in front of him with the plastic sword held up as if about to attack. Used to sudden blows as he was, he flinched a little. But Gerard mumbled something and lowered the sword against his shoulder and said, with as deep a voice as he could muster.

"I herewith dub you, Dominic's conqueror, knight of New Jersey and all surrounding areas like New York... um-"

"Pennsylvania."

"Pennsylvania!"

"Maybe Delaware?"

"Delaware maybe!"

Gerard tapped him lightly on the shoulder for each new area. Frank took his knife out of the bag, held it out, and proclaimed that he was the Knight of Delaware Maybe. Wanted Gerard to be the Beautiful Maiden he would rescue from the Dragon.

But Gerard was a terrible monster who ate beautiful maidens for lunch and he was the one he would have to fight. Frank left the knife in his sheath as they fought, shouted, and ran around in the corridors. In the middle of their game they heard a scrape in the lock to the basement doors.

They quickly piled into a food cellar where they hardly had room to sit hip against hip, and breathed quickly and quietly. They heard a man's voice.

"What are you doing down here?" Frank and Gerard held their breath as the man waited, listening. Then he said, "Damn kids" and left. They stayed in the food cellar until they were sure the man had gone, then they crawled out, leaned against the wooden wall, giggling. After a while Gerard stretched out on the concrete floor and stared up at the ceiling.

Frank touched his foot. "Are you tired?"

"Yes. Tired."

Frank pulled his knife out of the sheath, looked at it. It was heavy, beautiful. He carefully pressed his pointed finger against the tip, then removed it. A small red dot. He pressed again, harder. When he took his finger away a pearl-shaped drop of blood came out. But this wasn't the way to do it.

"Gerard? Do you want to do something?"

He was still staring up at the ceiling.

"What?"

"Do you want to ... enter into a pact with me?"

"Yes."

If he had asked him ‘how?’, he would maybe have told him what he was thinking before he did it. But he simply said "yes." He wanted to do it, whatever it was. Frank swallowed hard, gripped the knife so the edge was resting against the palm of his hand, shut his eyes, and pulled the blade out of his hand. A stinging, smarting pain. He caught his breath.

_Did I do this?_

He opened his eyes, opened his hand. Yes. A thin trickle of blood was revealed in his palm. The blood pushed out slowly, not as he had thought in a thin line but as a string of pearls that he stared at with fascination as they merged into a thicker, uneven mass.

Gerard lifted his head.

"What are you doing?"

Frank was still holding his hand in front of his face, staring at it.

"It's easy, Gerard, it wasn't even-."

He held his bleeding hand toward him. His eyes widened. He shook his head violently while he crawled backward, away from his hand.

"No, Frank." He said lowly.

"What is it?"

"Frank, no."

"It almost doesn't hurt at all."

Gerard stopped backing up, staring at his hand while he kept shaking his head. Frank was holding the knife by the blade in his other hand, held it out to him handle first.

"You only have to prick yourself in a finger or something. Then we'll mix our blood. And then we have our pact." Gerard did not take the knife. Frank put it down on the floor so he could catch a drop of blood that fell from his wound. "Come on. Don't you want to?"

"Frank, we can't. You would be infected, you—"

"It doesn't feel like that."

A ghost flew into Gerard's face, distorting it into something so different from the boy he knew that he completely forgot about catching the blood that dropped from his hand. He now looked like the monster they had recently pretended that he was and Frank jumped back while the pain in his hand intensified.

"Gerard, what..."

He sat up, pulled his legs under him, crouched on all fours, and stared straight at his bleeding hand, took a step closer toward it. Stopped, clenched his teeth, and got out a gruff, " _Leave_!"

Tears of fear welled up in Frank's eyes. "Gerard, stop it. Stop playing. Stop it now."

Gerard crawled a bit closer, stopped again. He forced his body to contort itself so his head was lowered to the ground.

"Go! Or you'll die!" He screamed.

Frank got up, took a few steps back. His feet hit against the bag of bottles so it fell over, with a clinking sound. He flattened himself against the wall while Gerard crawled over to the little smear of blood that had fallen from his hand.

Another bottle fell over and broke against the concrete floor while Frank stood pressed against the wall and stared at Gerard, who stretched out his tongue and licked the dirty concrete, whisked his tongue around on the place where blood had fallen.

A bottle clinked softly and stopped moving. Gerard licked and licked the floor. When he lifted his face to him there was a gray smear of dirt on the tip of his nose. "Go... please... leave."

Then the ghost flew into his face again, but before it had time to take over he got up and ran down the corridor, opened the door to his stairwell, and disappeared.

Frank stood there with the damaged hand tightly wrapped. Blood was starting to well out around the edges. He opened it, looked at the cut. It had gone deeper than he had intended, but it wasn't dangerous, he thought. He couldn’t see any yellow or white. Some blood was already starting to congeal.

He looked at the now pale splotch on the floor. Then he gingerly licked a little of the blood on his palm, spit it out.

-

Night lights.

Tomorrow they would operate on his mouth and throat, probably in the hopes that something would come out. His tongue was still there. He could move it around in the sealed cavity of his mouth, tickle his upper jaw with it. Maybe he would be able to talk again even though his lips were gone. But he did not intend to talk again.

A woman, he didn't know if she was from the police or a nurse, sat in the corner a few meters away, reading a book and keeping an eye on him.

They allot so much of their resources when a nobody decides his life is over?

He realized that he was valuable, that he meant a lot to them. Probably they were digging around in old records right now, cases they hoped to be able to solve with him as the perpetrator. A policeman had been in yesterday to take his fingerprints. He had not made any resistance. It didn't matter.

It was possible that the fingerprints would link him to the murders in both Ohio and Nebraska. He tried to remember how he had proceeded there, if he had left fingerprints or other traces. Probably.

The only thing that worried him was that by way of these events people could track down Gerard.

-

Michael was eight years old and lonely. He had had a brother before, an older brother. But he died before Michael was old enough to build a meaningful relationship with him. His parents had their time though. For two years now, declared dead, his parents were wrecks. Mother baked until all the yeast and flour in the cabinets were gone, kneaded into dough. Father was out at the bars, swallowing drink after drink. Coming home to smack Michael’s mother around until the night he had hung himself in the barn. Mother had taken her own life not long after. Leaving eleven year old Michael alone in the world with nothing, not even a note.

He sold the cows, the pigs, the horses, and the goats. Kept the chickens and the dog. Tended to the farm for two weeks before running into the forest as far as his legs could carry him. He ran until it was dark, until his thighs ached and burned, until the back of his calves felt like they were going to rip.  That was when Gerard introduced himself. Said he would help Michael if he could live with him. Michael shrugged, told him he had no reason to say no. Gerard carried Michael on his back all the way back to the farmhouse. Michael had fallen asleep, but it took him a few years to realize how Gerard had gotten back before sunrise. 

Gerard took care of the crops at night. Said his vision worked better in the dark. Plus, the plants were sleeping, so it was easier to give them what they needed before they were going to use it. It took Michael a small while to warm up to him enough to treat him as anything more than a roommate. But by the time Michael was fourteen, he considered him a brother. Didn't ask why Gerard never seemed to get any bigger. Why he seemed to surpass him in height, though he assumed he was much older than him. Didn't ask why Gerard covered up the windows in the guest bedroom he had made his. 

One night Michael laid in bed awake, staring out his window into the wheat field as he much did. He wondered why Gerard left every now and again, coming back quietly. Running showers at awfully late hours. He used to tell himself it was because that's when Gerard liked to tend to the crops, but it didn't feel true enough anymore. It couldn't be the sole reason. So Michael crept downstairs after Gerard had left. Sat on the sofa staring at the television with an incredibly scared churning in his stomach. He didn't know why he was so terrified, but his sixteen year old complex would never allow him to admit it to himself that he was scared of finding out the truth about his brother. 

When Gerard came through the front door he held his shirt bunched up in a ball in his hands. He stared at Michael, who looked back with huge eyes. Michael could tell that Gerard had known he was waiting for him. Whether it was a sixth sense or the light from the television spilling onto the porch, he knew. And he was hiding his shirt from him. His eyes flicked to it and Gerard swung it behind his back in a pathetic attempt to hide it. 

"Show it to me." Michael said, more tentatively than he intended. 

"I can't." Gerard whispered. 

"Tell me what it is. I can't handle not knowing anymore. It was fine when I was a kid, but I'm growing up now and I need to know." He plead. "I need to know what the fuck is happening."

Gerard sighed and flexed his toes inside of his boots. Looked at the ground and held his balled up shirt out. Michael took small, slow steps forward. Took the shirt from his hands. Opened it. Held it in front of his face by the shoulders. Studied the blood littering the front, wiped on the wrists of the sleeves and nodded. Then he took a step back and looked Gerard up and down. Michael felt sick, thought he was seeing ghosts. He puked on the hardwood floor before everything went black. Gerard carried him back to the bed and waited for him to wake so he could explain.

“I can’t die anymore. Or age. I drink... blood. To live.” Gerard sighed and patted a towel against Michael’s wet forehead.

“So what now?” He asked.

“I’ll leave if you want. I'm sorry.”

"We're brothers, Gerard." Michael shrugged weakly. "The only family I got... you're strange but I love you. Please stay."

Gerard had given him money to buy some clothes and to rent an apartment in the city when he was old enough. He had done everything without wondering whether Gerard was "evil" or "good" or anything else. Gerard was his brother. Even though he was the freakiest thing Michael could imagine. But he still loved him, cared for him more than he could say. And he owed Gerard, his own relative, loyalty at least.

-

The pages rustled when the night guard turned them in the book she was reading. Probably a dime store novel. In Plato's republic the "Guards" were supposed to be the most highly educated among the people. But this was New Jersey, 1981, and they were probably reading the young adult romance selection.

The man in the water, the man whose corpse he had sunk. That had been clumsy of him, of course. He should have done as Gerard said and buried him. But nothing about the man would be traced back to Gerard. The bite mark in his neck would be regarded as unusual, but they would think the blood had been washed away by the water. But the man's clothes. And Gerard’s top.

Gerard's top, the one Michael had found on the man's body when he first came to take care of it. He should have taken it home with him, burned it, anything. Instead he had tucked it inside the man's coat. What would they decide of that? A child's top, spotted with blood. Was there a risk that someone had seen this shirt on Gerard? Someone who would recognize it? If it were displayed in the paper, for example? Gerard had met people.

Frank. The boy next door.

Michael's body twisted restlessly in the bed. The guard put her book down and looked at him.

"Don't do anything stupid."

-

Gerard crossed Ninth street, continued into the courtyard between the ten-story buildings, two monolithic lighthouses towering over the crouching three-story buildings scattered around. No one was outside, but there was light coming from the gymnasium and Gerard slithered up the fire escape ladder, looked in.

Music was blaring out of a small tape player. Middle-aged women were jumping around in time to the music so the wooden floor shook. Gerard curled up in the metal grating of the stairs, leaned his chin on his knees, and took in the scene. Several of the women were overweight. The women jumped and skipped, lifting their knees so the flesh trembled in their too-tight workout pants. They moved in a circle, clapped their hands, jumped again. All the while the music kept going. Warm, oxygenated blood streaming through thirsty muscles. But there were too many of them.

Gerard jumped down from the fire escape, landed softly on the frozen ground underneath, continued around the back of the gym, and stopped outside the swimming pool. The large frosted windows projected rectangles of light onto the snow cover. Over each large window there was a smaller, narrow window made of regular glass. Gerard jumped up and hung from the edge of the roof with his hands, looked in. No one was inside. The surface of the pool glittered in the glow of the halogen lights. A few balls were floating in the middle.

_Swim. Splash. Play._

Gerard swayed back and forth, a dark pendulum. Looked at the balls, saw them flying through the air, thrown up again, laughter and screams and splashing water. Gerard relaxed his hold on the edge of the roof, fell down, and consciously let himself land so hard that it hurt, then kept going over the school yard to the path through the park, stopping under a high tree hanging over the path. It was dark. No one around. Gerard looked up into the top of the tree, along five six meters of smooth tree trunk. Kicked off his shoes. Thought himself new hands, new feet.

It didn’t hurt much anymore, just felt like a tingling, an electric current through his fingers and toes as they thinned out, took on a new shape. The bones crackled in his hands as they stretched out, shot out through the melting skin of the fingertips and made long, curved claws. Same thing with his toes. 

Gerard jumped a couple of meters up onto the trunk of the tree, dug in his claws, and climbed up to a thick branch that hung out over the path. Curled the claws on his feet around the branch and sat without moving.

A shooting sensation in his teeth as Gerard thought them sharp. The enamel bulged out, was sharpened by an invisible file, became sharp. Gerard carefully bit himself in his lower lip. Leaving a crescent-shaped row of needles that almost punctured the skin. Now only the wait.

-

When Jerry came out of the apartment building, Virginia was nothing more than a dark shape moving down the path toward the pool. His chest was hurting from sprinting down the stairs and his elbow sent waves of pain toward the shoulder. In spite of all this, he ran. He ran as fast as he could. His head was starting to clear in the cool air, and fear of losing her motivated him to push on. He stopped, drew as much air into his lungs as he could in order to shout out her name. She was walking up ahead only fifty meters away.

Just as he was about to call out her name he saw a shadow fall from a tree above Virginia, land on her, and knock her to the ground. His scream turned into a hiss, and he sped up. He wanted to shout something but there was not enough air to both run and shout.

He ran faster than his drunk feet dared carry him. In front of him Virginia got to her feet with a large lump on her back, spun around like a crazed hunchback, and fell down again. He had no plan, no thoughts. Nothing except this: to get to Virginia and get rid of whatever that was on her back. She lay in the snow next to the path with that black mass crawling on her.

When he reached her he directed all of his force into a kick at the black thing. His foot made contact with something hard and he heard a sharp crack, as when ice breaks up. The black thing was thrown from Virginia's back and landed in the snow next to her. Virginia lay completely still; there were dark stains on the white ground. The black thing sat up. A child. Jerry stood there staring into the prettiest little child's face imaginable, framed by a veil of black hair. A pair of enormous dark eyes met his.

The child got up on all fours, cat-like, preparing to lunge. The face changed as the child drew back its lips and Jerry could see the rows of sharp teeth glow in the dark. They remained like this for a few panting breaths, the child on all fours, and Jerry could now see that its fingers were claws, sharply defined against the snow. Then a grimace of pain contorted the child's face, he got up on two legs and ran off in the direction of the school with long rapid steps. A few seconds later he reached the shadows and was gone.

Jerry stood where he was and blinked away the sweat running into his eyes. Then he threw himself down next to Virginia. He saw the wound. Her whole throat was ripped up. Dark strands of blood ran all the way up into her hair, down her back. He stripped off his jacket, pulled off the sweater he was wearing underneath, bunched it up into a ball, and pressed it against the wound.

“Virginia! Virginia, my darling!”

 -

 

**Saturday, November 7**

On his way to Dad's house. Every bend in the road was too familiar; he had taken this route more times than he could remember. Alone, maybe only ten or twelve, with his mom maybe another thirty, at least. His mom and dad had divorced when he was four, but Frank and his mom had kept coming out on weekends and holidays. On odd occasions, Frank came out for fun.

The last three years he had been allowed to take the bus by himself. This time his mom hadn't even come with him to the city stop where the buses left. He was a big boy now, had his own book of prepaid tickets to the subway in his wallet.

Actually, the main reason he had the wallet was to have a place to keep the prepaid tickets but now there was also twenty dollars to buy sweets and such, as well as the notes from Gerard.

Frank fiddled with the Band-Aid on his palm. He didn't want to see him anymore. After last night, Frank wasn’t sure what to think. But he was sure about one certain thing: He was scary. What happened in the basement was-

He showed his true face.

-there was something in him, something that was pure Horror. Everything you were supposed to watch out for. Heights, fire, shards of glass, snakes. Everything that his mom tried so hard to keep him safe from.

Maybe that was why he hadn't wanted Gerard and his mom to meet. His mom would have recognized it, forbidden him to get near it. Near Gerard.

The bus exited the freeway and turned down toward a smaller road. This was the only bus that went to Exeter. That was why it had to wind its way up and down all the roads- in order to drive through as many settlements as possible. The bus drove past the mountainous landscape of piled timber at the sawmill, made a sharp turn and almost slid on its back down toward the pier.

He had not waited for Gerard on Friday night.

Instead he had taken the Snow Racer and gone by himself to Ghost Hill. His mom had protested since he had stayed home from school that day with a cold, but he said he felt better.

He walked through China Park with the Snow Racer on his back. The sledding hill started a hundred meters past the last park lights, a hundred meters of dark forest. The snow crunched under his feet. There was a soft soughing from the forest, like breathing. The moonlight filtered through the trees and the ground between them turned into a woven tapestry of shadows where figures without faces waited, swaying to and fro.

He reached the place where the path started to bear down strongly toward Raid Bay, and climbed onto his Snow Racer. The Ghost House was a black wall next to the hill, a reprimand.

**You are not allowed to be here in the dark. This is our place now. If you want to play here, you'll have to play with us.**

At the bottom of the hill he could see the occasional light shining from the Raid Bay boat club. Frank inched himself forward a few centimeters, the incline took over, and the Snow Racer started to glide. He squeezed the steering wheel, wanted to close his eyes but didn't dare to because then he could veer off the road and down the steep slope toward the Ghost House.

He shot down the hill, a projectile of nerves and tensed muscles. Faster, faster. Formless, snow-covered arms stretched out from the Ghost House, grabbing for his hat, brushing against his cheek.

Maybe it was only a sudden gust of wind but at the very bottom of the hill he drove into a viscous, transparent, filmy barrier stretched out over the path that tried to stop him. But his speed was too great.

The Snow Racer drove into the filmy barrier and it glued itself onto his face and body, was stretched until it burst, and then he was through.

The lights were glittering over Raid Bay. He sat on his Snow Racer and stared out over the spot where he had knocked down Dominic yesterday morning. Turned around. The Ghost House was an ugly shack of sheet metal.

He pulled the Snow Racer up the hill again. Slid down. Up again. Down again. Couldn't stop. And he went on. Went on until his face was a mask of ice.

Then he walked home.

-

He had only slept three or four hours, afraid that Gerard was going to come. Of what he would be forced to say, to do if he did that. Push him away. Therefore he fell asleep on the bus to Manhattan and didn't wake up until they were there. On the Massachusetts bus he had kept himself awake, made a game out of trying to remember as much as possible along the way.

Soon there will be a yellow house with a windmill on the lawn.

A yellow house with a snowy windmill on the lawn passed by outside the window. In Boston, a girl got on the bus. Frank gripped the back of the seat in front of him. She looked a little like Gerard. Of course it wasn't him. The girl sat down a few seats in front of him. He looked at her neck.

_What's wrong with him?_

The thought had come to him even as he was in the cellar gathering the bottles together and wiping the blood away with a piece of cloth from the garbage. The thought that Gerard was a vampire. That explained a lot of things. That he was never out in the daytime. That he could see in the dark; he had come to understand that he could.

Plus a lot of other things: the way he talked, the cube, his flexibility, things that of course could have a natural explanation. But then there was also the way that he had licked his blood from the floor, and what really made him shiver was when he thought about what he always said.

_"Can I come in? Say that I can come in."_

That he had needed an invitation to come into his room, to his bed. And he had invited him in. A vampire. A being that lived off other peoples' blood. Gerard. There was not one person who he could tell. No one would believe him. And if someone did believe him, what would happen?

Frank imagined a caravan of men walking through their building, in through the covered entrance where he and Gerard had hugged, with sharpened stakes in their hands. He was afraid of Gerard now, didn't want to see him anymore, but he didn't want that.

An hour and a half after he had boarded the bus in Massachusetts he arrived in Rhode Island. He pulled on the string and the bell rang up front by the driver. The bus pulled over right in front of the store and he had to wait for an old lady, whom he recognized but didn't know the name of, to get off.

His dad was standing below the stairs, nodded and said "hum" to the old lady. Frank climbed off the bus, stood still for a second in front of his dad. This last week things had happened that had made Frank feel bigger. Not adult. But bigger, at any rate. All that fell away as he stood in front of his father.

His mom claimed his dad was childlike, in a bad way. Immature, couldn't handle responsibility. She said some nice things about him too, but that was what she always came back to. The immaturity.

For Frank, his dad was the very image of an adult as he now stretched out his broad arms and Frank fell into them. His dad smelled different from all the people in the city. In his torn Helly Hansen vest fixed with Velcro there was always the same mixture of wood, paint, metal, and above all, oil. These were the smells but Frank didn't think of them in that way. It was all simply ‘Dad's smell.’ He loved it and drew a deep breath through his nose as he pressed his face against his dad's chest.

"Well, hey there."

"Hi, Dad."

"Your trip go okay?"

"No, we ran into an elk."

"Oh, no. That must have been something."

"Just joking."

"I see. I see. But you know, I remember a time ..."

As they walked toward the store, Dad started telling a story about how once a truck he was driving had collided with an elk. Frank had heard the story before and looked around, humming from time to time.

The New Shoreham store looked as trashy as ever. Signs and streamers that had been allowed to stay up in anticipation of next summer made the whole store look like an oversized ice cream stand. The large tent behind the store, where they sold garden tools, soil, outdoor furniture, and such, was tied up for the season.

Just as they reached the moped his dad finished the story with the elk.

".. . and then I had to hit him with a crowbar that I had for opening drawers and that kind of thing. Right between the eyes. He twitched like this. No, it wasn't so nice."

"No, of course not."

Frank jumped up on the trailer, pulling his legs in under him. His dad dug around in a pocket on the vest and pulled out a cap.

"Here. It'll get cold around your ears."

"No, I have one."

Frank took out his own cap and put it on. Dad put the other one away.

"What about you? It'll get cold around your ears."

Dad laughed.

"No, I'm used to it."

Of course Frank knew that; he was just teasing. He couldn't remember ever seeing his dad in a wool cap. If it got really cold and windy he put on a kind of bearskin hat with ear flaps that he called his "inheritance," but that was the limit.

His dad kick-started the moped and it roared like an electric chain saw. He shouted something about the idling and put it in first. The moped jumped forward, almost making Frank fall backwards. His dad yelled something about the gears and then they were off.

Second, third gear. The moped flew through the town. Frank sat with his legs crossed in the clattering trailer. He felt like a king of the world and would have been able to keep going like this forever.

-

A physician had explained it to him. The fumes he had inhaled had burned away his vocal chords and he would probably never be able to speak normally again. A new operation would be able to give him a rudimentary ability to produce vowels, but since even his tongue and lips were badly injured there would have to be additional operations to enable the possibility of uttering consonants.

As a former teacher, Michael could not help but be fascinated at the thought. To create speech by surgical means.

He knew quite a bit about phonemes and the smallest components of language, common across many cultures. He had never reflected much over the actual tools of production- the roof of the mouth, lips, tongue, vocal chords- in this way. To coax speech from this shapeless raw material with a scalpel.

But it was meaningless anyway. He did not intend to speak. In addition, he suspected that the doctor was talking that way for a special reason. He was considered suicide-prone. Therefore it was important to imprint him with a linear sense of time. To recreate the feeling of life as a project, a dream of future conquests.

He didn't buy it. If Gerard needed him he could consider living. Otherwise he could not. Nothing indicated that Gerard needed him. But how would Gerard be able to contact him in this place? From the treetops outside his window he sensed that he was high up. And furthermore, he was well-guarded. In addition to the doctors and nurses there was always at least one policeman nearby. Gerard could not reach him and he could not reach Gerard. The thought of escaping, of getting in touch with Gerard one last time had gone through his head. But how?

The throat operation had made him capable of breathing on his own again. He no longer had to be attached to a respirator. But he could not get down food in the normal way (even this would be repaired, the doctor had assured him). The feeding tube dangled constantly at the edge of his vision. If he pulled it out an alarm would go off somewhere, and anyway he couldn't see very well. To escape was basically unthinkable.

A plastic surgeon had taken the opportunity to transplant a piece of skin from his back to his eyelid so he could shut his eye. He shut his eye. The door to his room opened. It was time again. He recognized the voice. The same man as before.

"Well, well, well," said the man. "They tell me there won't be any talking in the near future. That's too bad. But I have this stubborn thought that we could still manage to communicate with each other, you and me, if you're up for it."

Michael tried to remember what Plato said in The Republic about murderers and violent offenders, what you were supposed to do with them.

"I see you can shut your eye now. That's good. You know what? I'll try to make this a little more concrete for you. Because it struck me that maybe you don't believe we're going to identify you. But we will. I'm sure you remember you had a wristwatch. Luckily it was an older watch with the manufacturer's initials, serial number, and everything. We're going to trace it within a couple of days, in one way or another. A week maybe. And there are other things.”

Michael felt like sighing. Wished this guy would give it a rest. Wished he would shut up.

"We'll find you, that's a certainty. So .. . Max. I don't know why I want to call you Max, it’s entirely chance. Max? You maybe want to help us out a little here. Otherwise we'll have to take a picture of you and send it to the papers and it will be . . . complicated. Much easier if you talk or something with me now.”

Michael laid still.

"You had a piece of paper with the Morse code in your pocket. Do you know the Morse code? Because in that case we can talk by tapping."

Michael opened his eye, looked in the direction of the two dark spots in the white, blurry oval that was the man's face. The man clearly chose to interpret this as an invitation. He continued.

"This man in the water. It wasn't you who killed him, was it? The pathologists say that the bite marks in his neck were probably made by a child. And now we've had a report that I unfortunately can't give any details of, _but,_ I think you’re protecting someone. Is that right? Lift your hand if I’m on the right track."

Michael shut his eye. The policeman sighed.

"Okay, then we'll let the machine keep working. Is there anything else you would like to tell me before I go?"

The man was about to get up when Michael lifted one hand. The policeman sat down again. Michael lifted the hand higher. And waved.

_‘Good-bye.’_

The policeman let out a snorting sound, got up, and left.

-

Dominic liked to hang out with his older brother. At least when none of his sketchy buddies were around. Danny knew some guys from New York that Dominic was pretty scared of. One evening a few years ago they had come by to talk to Danny, hanging around outside but without ringing the buzzer. When Dominic told them Danny wasn't home they asked him to deliver a message.

_"Tell your brother that if he doesn't get us the dough by Monday we'll put his head in a vice. You know what that is? Perfect. And turn it like this until the dough runs out of his ears. Can you tell him that? Great, great. Dominic's your name? Good-bye then, Dominic."_

Dominic had delivered the message and Danny had simply nodded, said he knew. Then some money had disappeared from Mom's wallet and then there had been an angry scene.

Danny was not home as often nowadays. There was sort of no room for him anymore since their youngest little sister was born. Dominic already had two younger siblings and there weren't supposed to be any more. But then Mom had met some guy and that's how it went.

At least Dominic and Danny had the same dad. He worked on an oil rig off the coast of Maine and not only had he started sending regular child support, he was also sending a little extra just to make up for before. Mom blessed him, and when she was drunk she had even cried over him a few times and said she would never again meet a man like that. So for the first time in as long as Dominic could remember a lack of money was not the constant topic of conversation.

Now they were sitting in the pizzeria on the main square in Manhattan. Danny had been home in the morning, argued a bit with Mom, and then he and Dominic had gone out. Danny heaped toppings on his pizza, folded it in half, picked up the large roll with both hands, and started to eat. Dominic ate his pizza in the usual way, thinking that next time he ate pizza without Danny, he would eat it like that.

Danny chewed, nodded his head at the bandage over Dominic's ear. "Looks like hell."

"Yeah."

"Does it hurt?"

"It's okay."

"Ma said it's damaged for life. That you won't be able to hear anything every again."

"They don't know yet. Maybe it'll be alright."

"Hm, alright. Let me get this straight. The guy just picked up some big branch and bashed it into your head."

"Mhm."

"Damn. What are you gonna do about it?"

"Don't know."

"Need any help?"

"... No." Dominic said very seriously.

"What? Me and a few of my pals can take him out."

Dominic pulled off a big piece with mushroom, his favorite, put it in his mouth and chewed. No. Better not drag Danny's friends into this, then it would get out of hand. Nonetheless Dominic smiled at the thought of how scared shitless Frank would be if he appeared at his house with Danny and those guys that had come for the money. He shook his head.

Danny put his pizza roll down and looked seriously at Dominic.

"Okay, but I'm just saying. One more thing, and then."

He snapped his fingers hard, then made a fist.

"You're my brother and no little shit is going to come around and-” He grunted and waved his hand. He pointed a stern finger into Dominic’s face. “One more thing, you can say whatever you want. But then I'm going after him. Get it?"

Danny held out his fist across the table. Dominic also made a fist and bumped Danny's with it. It felt good. That there was someone who cared. Danny nodded.

"Good. I have something for you."

He bent down under the table, took out a plastic bag that he had been carrying all morning. He drew a thin photo album out of the bag. "Dad came by last week. He's got a beard, almost didn't recognize him. He had this with him."

Danny held the album out to Dominic, who wiped his fingers on a napkin and opened it.

Pictures of children. Of Mom. Maybe ten years ago. And a man he recognized as his father. The man was pushing the kids on swings. In one picture he was wearing a much-too-small cowboy hat. Danny, maybe nine years old, was standing next to him with a plastic rifle in his hands and a grim expression. A little boy who had to be Dominic sat on the ground nearby and looked wide-eyed at them.

"He gave me this ‘till next time. He wants it back, said it was… yeah, what the fuck was it-  'my most valuable possession,' I think he said. Thought it might interest you too."

Dominic nodded without looking up from the album. He had only met his dad two times since he left when Dominic was four. At home there was one picture of him, a pretty bad one where he was sitting around with some other people. This was something completely different. Here you could kind of construct a real image of him.

"One more thing. _Don't_ show it to Mom. I think Dad took it before he left. And I told you what he said already. Just promise you won’t show it to her."

Still with his nose buried in the album, Dominic made a fist and held it out over the table. Danny laughed and then Dominic felt Danny's knuckles against his. _Promise_.

"Hey, you check it out later. Take the bag too."

Danny held out the bag and Dominic reluctantly folded up the album, put it in the bag. Danny was done with his pizza, leaned back in his chair, and patted his stomach.

"So, how are things on the chick front?"

-

The village flew by. Snow that was kicked up by the wheels of the moped trailer was sprayed back and peppered Frank's cheeks. He gripped the tow rope with both hands, shifted his weight to the side, swinging out of the snow cloud. There was a sharp scraping sound as the skis sliced through the loose snow. The outer ski nudged an orange reflector where the road split in two. He wobbled, then regained his balance.

The road down to the summer houses wasn't plowed. The moped left three deep tracks in the untouched snow cover, and five meters behind it came Frank on skis, making two additional tracks. He drove zigzag over the moped tracks, stood on one ski like a trick skier, crouched down into a little ball of speed.

When his dad slowed down on the long hill heading down to the old steamship pier, Frank was going faster than the moped and he was forced to brake a little in order not to let too much slack into the line, which would then result in a strong jerk when the hill leveled off and the moped picked up speed again.

The moped got all the way down to the pier and his dad switched down out of gear and stood on the brake. Frank was still traveling at full throttle and for a short moment he thought about dropping the rope and keeping going. Out over the end of the pier, down into the black water. But he angled the mini-skis out, braked a couple of meters from the edge.

He stood panting for a while, looked out over the water. Thin sections of ice had started to form, bobbed up and down in the small waves by the shores. Maybe there was a chance of real ice this year. So you could walk across to the other side. Or did they keep a channel open? Frank couldn't remember. It was several years since there had been ice like that.

When Frank was out here in the summer he would fish for herring from this pier. Loose hooks on the line, a lure on the end. If he found a school he could end up with a couple of kilos if he had the patience, but mostly he ended up with ten or fifteen fish. That was enough for dinner for him and his dad; the smallest ones went to the cat.

Dad came up and stood behind him.

"That went well, didn’t it?."

"Yeah, but I went all the way through the snow a couple of times."

"True, the snow is a little loose. If we could pack it tighter, somehow. If we could maybe take a particleboard and hitch it up, put some weight on it. You know, if you put the board and the weight down."

"Should we do it?"

"No, it'd have to be tomorrow, at any rate. It's getting dark now. We'll have to get home and work on that bird a little if there's going to be any dinner."

"Okay."

His dad looked out over the water, stood there quietly for a while.

"You know, I've been thinking about something."

"Yes?"

It was coming now. Mom had told Frank that she let Dad know in no uncertain terms that he had to talk to him about what happened with Dominic. And actually Frank wanted to talk about it. Dad was at a secure distance from it all, wouldn't interfere in any way. His dad cleared his throat, gathered himself. Breathed out. Looked over the water.

"Yes, I was thinking ... do you have any ice skates?"

"No, none that fit me."

"No, no. No. Well, if we get ice this winter and it looks like we will,. then it would be fun to have some, wouldn't it? I have some."

"They probably won't fit."

His dad snorted, a kind of chuckle.

"No, but Oscar's boy has some he's grown out of. Thirty-nines. What size do you wear?"

"Thirty-eight."

"Yes, but with woolen socks you'd fit. I'll ask him if you can have them."

"Great."

"Then it's settled. Good. Should we get going, then?"

Frank nodded. Maybe it would come later. And the part about the skates was good. If they could manage it tomorrow then he could bring them back with him.

He walked on his mini-skis over to the end of the towrope, backed up until the line was taut, signaled his dad that he was ready. His dad started the moped. They had to go up the hill in first gear. The moped roared so that it frightened some crows out of the top of a pine tree.

Frank glided slowly up the hill like he was going up a rope tow, stood straight with his legs pressed together. He wasn't thinking about anything except trying to keep his skis in the old tracks in order to avoid cutting through the snow layer to the ground. They made their way home as twilight was falling.

-

Jerry passed by the school, walking with a bottle in hand. He had gone around the surrounding neighborhoods where Virginia had been attacked. Looking for the child, asking people if they had seen one. But no luck. He glanced at the ice past Ghost Hill.

The news had made quite a splash in the papers yesterday, mostly because of the macabre way in which the body had been discovered. A murdered alcoholic was normally nothing noteworthy but there had been salacious interest in the children watching, the fire department who had to saw into the ice, etc. Next to the text there was a passport photo of Jack Stringer, which looked like a mugshot, at the very best.

Jerry turned around and found himself in the underpass, standing under the heavy curve of concrete. On the wall next to the lowest step someone had spray painted the words "Iron Maiden," whatever that meant. Maybe some group.

He walked past the gym, out onto the open streets. Normally he would have taken a shortcut across the back of the school but there it was, dark. He could very easily imagine that creature curled up in the shadows. He looked up into the tops of the tall pine trees that bordered the path. A few dark clumps in among the branches. Probably bird nests.

It wasn't just what the creature looked like, it was also the way in which it attacked. He would maybe, maybe, have been able to accept the idea that the teeth and claws had some natural explanation, if it hadn't been for the jump from the tree. Before carrying Virginia back he had looked up at the tree. The branch that the creature had jumped from was maybe five meters above the ground. To fall five meters onto someone's back- if you added "circus artist" to the other things to arrive at a "natural explanation," then maybe.

Jerry took a step close to inspect the branches on the weak tree. It felt darker here. He went back to the stairwell where he had chased Virginia. It was pitch black inside of here. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Goosebumps pushed through his skin.

The child is here.

He stood frozen in place until he found the will to move his feet. He walked briskly in the cold down the street. Kept going until he reached a place that was swarming with people. A big red sign with bright yellow letters stared back at him from the grocery store window.

CRUSHED TOMATOES. THREE CANS 1 DOLLAR.

But from the dates on the sign, the sale had ended six days ago.

 -

 

**Saturday, November 7 (Night)**

Frank cleared the table and his dad did the dishes. The eider duck had been delicious, of course. No shot. There was not much to wash off the plates. After they had eaten most of the bird and almost all of the potato they had sopped up the remains on their plates with white bread. That was the best part. Pour out gravy on the plate and sop it up with porous bits of white bread that half-dissolved in the gravy and then melted in your mouth.

His dad wasn't a great cook or anything, but three dishes—mashed potato, fried herring, and roasted seabird—he made so often that he had mastered them. Tomorrow they would have something made from the leftovers.

Frank had spent the hours before dinner in his room. He had his own room at his dad's house that was bare compared to his room in town, but he liked it. In town he had posters and pictures, a lot of things; it was always changing. This room never changed and that was exactly what he liked about it. It looked the same now as when he was seven years old.

When he walked into the room, with its familiar damp smell that lingered in the air after a rapid heating job in anticipation of his visit, it was as if nothing had happened for a long time. Here were still the Donald Duck and Bamse comic books bought during the many summers of years past. He no longer read them when he was in town, but here he did. He knew the stories by heart but he read them again.

While the smells filtered in from the kitchen he lay on his bed and read an old issue of Donald Duck. Donald, his nephews, and Uncle Scrooge were traveling to a distant country where there was no money and the cap tops of the bottles containing Uncle Scrooge's calming tonic became the currency.

When he had finished reading he busied himself with the assortment of lures and sinkers that he kept in an old sewing kit his dad had given him. Tied a new line with loose hooks, five of them, and attached the lures for summertime herring fishing.

Then they ate, and when his dad was done with the dishes they played tic-tac-toe. Frank liked sitting like that with his dad; the graph paper on the thin table, their heads leaning over the page, close to each other. The fire crackled in the fireplace.

Frank was x’s and his dad o’s as usual. His dad never let Frank win purposely and so until a few years ago his dad had always won easily, even if Frank got lucky now and again. But now it was more even. Maybe it had to do with him practicing so much with the Rubik's Cube.

The matches could go on over half the page, which was to Frank's advantage. He was good at keeping in mind places with holes that could be filled if Dad did this or that, mask an offensive as a defense. Tonight it was Frank who won.

Three matches in a row had now been encircled and marked with an ‘F’ in the middle. Only a little one, where Frank had been thinking of something else, had a "P" on it. Frank filled in an x and got two open fours where his dad could only block one. His dad sighed and shook his head.

"Well, Frank. Looks like I've met my match."

"Seems like it."

For the sake of the game, his dad blocked the one four and Frank filled in the other. His dad closed one side of the four and Frank put a fifth cross on the other side, drew a circle around the whole thing, and wrote a neat "F." His dad scratched his beard and pulled out a new sheet of paper. Held his pen up.

"But this time I'm going to-"

"You can always dream. You start."

Four crosses and three circles into the match there was a knock at the front door. Shortly thereafter it opened and Frank could hear thuds from someone stamping the snow off their feet.

"Hello, hello!"

Dad looked up from the paper, leaned back in the chair, and looked out into the hall. Frank pinched his lips together.

_‘No.’_

His dad nodded at the new arrival.

"Come in."

"Thank you."

Soft thumps from someone walking through the hall with woolen socks on their feet. A moment later James came into the kitchen. "Oh, I see. Well, aren't you two having a cozy evening."

Dad gestured toward Frank. "You've met my boy."

"Sure," James said. "Hi Frank, how's it going?"

"Fine." _Until now. Go away._

James thudded over to the kitchen table; the woolen socks had slid down his heels and were fluttering out in front of his toes like deformed flippers. He pulled out a chair and sat down.

"I see you're playing tic-tac-toe."

"Yes, but the boy is too good for me. I can't beat him anymore."

"No. Been practicing in town? Do you dare play against me, then, Frank?"

Frank shook his head. Didn't even want to look at James, knew what he would see there. Watery eyes, a mouth pulled into a sheep-grin. James looked like an old sheep and the blond curly hair only strengthened the impression. One of Dad's "friends" who was Frank's enemy.

James rubbed his hands together, producing a sound like sandpaper, and in the backlight from the hall Frank could see small flakes of skin fall to the floor. James had some kind of skin disease that flared up in the summer that made his face look like a rotten blood orange.

"Well, well. It sure is cozy in here."

_‘You always say that. Go away with your disgusting face and your old stale words.’_

"Dad, aren't we going to keep playing?"

"Of course, but now that we have a guest."

"Go on, play." James leaned back in his chair and looked like he had all the time in the world. But Frank knew he had lost the battle. It was over. Now it would turn out like always.

Most of all he wanted to scream, break something, most of all James. When Dad walked over to the pantry and brought out the bottle, picked up two shot glasses and put them on the table. James rubbed his hands so the flakes snowed.

"Well, well. What have we here."

Frank looked down at the paper with its unfinished game. He was going to put his cross there. But there would be no more crosses tonight. No circles. Nothing.

There was a light gurgling sound as Dad poured out the shots. The delicate upside-down cone of glass was filled with transparent liquid. It was so little and fragile in Dad's hand. It almost disappeared.

And still it ruined everything. Everything.

Frank crinkled up the unfinished game and put it in the woodstove. Dad made no protests. He and James had started talking about some acquaintance who had broken his leg. Went on to talk about other cases of broken bones that they had experienced or heard about, refilled their glasses.

Frank stayed where he was in front of the stove, with the doors open, looking at the paper that burst into flames, blackened. Then he got the other games and put them in the fire as well.

Dad and James took the glasses and the bottle and moved to the living room. Dad said something to Frank about '"come and talk a little" and Frank said "later, maybe." He sat there in front of the stove and stared into the fire. The heat caressed his face. He got up, got the graph paper from the kitchen table, tore unused pages out of it and put them in the fire.

When the whole pad with cover and all was blackened he took the pencils and threw them into the fire as well.

-

There was something unique about the hospital at this time of night. Mae Carlberg sat in the reception and looked out over the empty entrance hall. The cafeteria and kiosk were closed; only the occasional person came through, like a ghost under this high ceiling.

Late at night like this she liked to imagine that it was she and only she who was guarding this enormous building that was Mercy Hospital. It wasn't true, of course. If there was any kind of a problem she only had to push a button and a night guard would turn up in no more than three minutes.

There was a game she liked to play to get these late-night hours to pass. She thought of a profession, a place to live, and the basic outline of a person's background. Perhaps an illness. Then she applied all this in her mind to the next person who approached her at the desk. Often the result was amusing.

For example, she could imagine a pilot who lived in Arizona and had two dogs that a neighbor took care of when the pilot was away on his or her flights. The neighbor was secretly in love with the pilot, whose biggest problem was that he or she saw little green men with red caps swimming around in the clouds when he or she was out flying. Then all she had to do was wait.

Maybe after a while a woman with a ravaged appearance turned up. A female pilot. Had been drinking too much on the sly from those tiny liquor bottles they give you on the planes, had seen the little green men, had been fired. Now she sat at home with her dogs all day. The neighbor was still in love with her, however.

Mae kept going like that.

Sometimes she lectured herself about her game, because it prevented her from taking people seriously. But she couldn't help herself. Right now she was waiting for a minister whose passion was expensive sports cars and who loved picking up hitchhikers with the motive of trying to convert them. Man or woman? Old or young? How would someone like that look?

Mae rested her chin in her hands and looked toward the front doors. Not a lot of people tonight. Visiting hours were over and new patients who turned up with Saturday-night injuries. Mostly alcohol-related in one way or another were brought to the emergency room.

The revolving doors started to turn. The sports car minister, perhaps.

But no, this was one of those cases where she had to give up. It was a child. A waiflike little boy, about ten or twelve years old. Mae started to imagine a chain of events that would eventually lead this child to become that minister, but quickly stopped herself. The boy looked unhappy.

He walked over to the large map of the hospital with the color-coded lines marking the routes you had to take to go to this or that place. Few adults could make sense of that map, so how would a child be able to?

Mae leaned forward and said in a low voice. "Can I help you?"

The boy turned to her and smiled shyly, went over to the reception. His hair was wet, the occasional snowflake that had not yet melted shone white against the black. He didn't keep his gaze glued to the floor as children often did in a foreign environment. No, the dark sad eyes stared straight into Mae's as he walked over to the counter. A thought, as clear as though it were audible, flashed through Mae's head.

_I have to give you something. But what?_

In her mind, stupidly, she quickly went through the contents of her desk drawers. A pen? A balloon?

The child stopped in front of the counter. Only his neck and head reached over the top of it.

"Excuse me? I'm looking for my father."

"I see. Has he been admitted here?"

"Yes, although, I don't know for sure."

Mae looked past her at the doors, looked quickly around the hall, and then fixed on the boy in front of her, who was not even wearing a jacket. Only a black knitted turtleneck where drops of water and snowflakes glittered in the light of the reception area.

"Are you all alone here, dear? At this hour?"

"Yes, I just wanted to know if he is here."

"Let's see about that then, shall we? What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?"

The boy bent his head, seemed to be looking for something on the ground. When he straightened his head again the large dark eyes were wet with tears and his lower lip trembled.

"No, he… But he is here."

"But my dear."

Mae felt as if something in her chest were breaking and tried to take refuge in action; she bent down and took out her roll of paper towels from the lowest desk drawer, pulled off a piece, and handed it over to the boy. At last she was able to give him something, if only a piece of paper.

The boy blew his nose, and dried his eyes in a very adult way.

"Thank you."

"What's wrong with him?"

"He is hurt. The police took him."

"But then you'd better turn to them."

"Yes, but they're keeping him here. Because he's sick."

"Well, what kind of illness does he have?"

"I just know that the police have him here. Where is he?"

"Probably on the top floor, but you can't go up there if you haven't made an appointment with them ahead of time."

"I just wanted to know which window was his so I could- I don't know."

The boy started to cry again. Mae's throat got so tight it hurt. The boy wanted to know this so he could stand outside the hospital in the snow and look up toward his father's window. Mae swallowed.

"I can call them if you like. I'm sure that you can—"

" _No_ , it's fine. Now I know. Now I can uh- Thanks, thanks a lot."

The boy turned away and walked back to the revolving door.

_My Lord, all these broken families._

The boy walked out the doors and Mae kept staring at the place where the boy had disappeared. Something was wrong.

In her mind Mae went over what the boy had looked like, how he had moved. There was something that didn't match up, something.  It took Mae half a minute to remember what it was. The boy had not been wearing any shoes.

Mae jumped up and ran to the doors. She was only allowed to leave the reception desk unattended under very special circumstances. She decided that this counted as one of them. She trotted through the revolving doors impatiently. Hurry, hurry, hurry. And then out into the parking lot. The boy was nowhere in sight. What should she do? The social welfare people would have to be brought in; no one had checked to make sure there was someone to look after the boy. That was the only explanation. Who was his father?

Mae looked around the parking lot without finding the boy. She ran down one side of the hospital, in the direction of the subway. No boy. On her way back to the reception she tried to figure out who she should call, what she should do.

-

Frank lay in bed, waiting for The Werewolf. He felt the inside of his chest churning with rage, despair. From the living room he heard his dad's and James’ loud voices, mixed with music from the tape recorder. The Deep Brothers. Frank could not actually make out the words but he knew the song by heart.

"We live in the country, and soon we realized

we're country fellas and then it hit us

We needed something for the barn

We sold the china, all nice and fine

and bought ourselves a great big swine ..."

At this point the whole band started to imitate different farm animals. Normally he thought the Deep Brothers were funny. Now he hated them. Because they were part of this. Singing their idiotic songs for Dad and James while they got packed.

He knew exactly how it was going to go. In an hour or so the bottle would be empty and James would go home. Then Dad would pace up and down in the kitchen for a while, and finally decide he needed to talk to Frank.

He would come into Frank's room and he would no longer be Dad. Just an alcohol-stinking, clumsy mess, all sentimental and needy. Would want Frank to get out of bed. Needed to talk for a while. About how he still loved Mom, how he loved Frank, did Frank love him back? Slurring about all the wrongs he had ever experienced, and in the worst case scenario get himself worked up, become angry.

He never got violent or anything. But what Frank saw in his eyes at those times was the absolutely scariest thing he had ever seen. Then there was no trace of Dad left. Just a monster who had somehow crawled into his dad's body and became the pilot of it.

The person his dad became when he drank had no connection to the person he was when he was sober. And so it was comforting to think about Dad being a werewolf. That he in fact contained a whole other person in his body. Just as the moon brought out the wolf in a werewolf, so alcohol brought this creature out of his dad.

Frank picked up a Bamse comic, tried to read but couldn't concentrate. He felt forlorn. In an hour or so he would find himself alone with the Monster. And the only thing he could do was wait.

He threw the Bamse comic at the wall and got out of bed, went to get his wallet. One pack of prepaid subway tickets and two notes from Gerard. He put Gerard's notes side by side on the bed.

**_Then window, let day in, and let life out._ **

A heart.

**_See you tonight. Gerard._ **

And then the second.

**_I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Yours, Gerard._ **

There are no vampires.

The night was a black cover over the window. Frank shut his eyes and thought about the route to home, raced past the houses, the farms, the fields. Flew into the courtyard, in through his window, and there he was.

He opened his eyes, stared at the black rectangle of the window. Out there.

The Deep Brothers had started a song about a bicycle that got a flat tire. Dad and James laughed much too loudly at something. Something fell over.

Which monster do you choose?

Frank put Gerard's notes back in his wallet and put his clothes on. Snuck out into the hall and put on his shoes, his coat, and hat. He stood still in the hall a few seconds, listening to the sounds from the living room.

He turned to go, saw something, stopped.

On the shoe rack in the hall were his old rubber boots, the ones he had worn when he was four or five. They had been there as long as he could remember, even though there was no one who could use them. Next to them were his dad's enormous Tretorn boots, one of them with a patch on the heel like the kind you use to fix bicycle tires.

Why had he kept them?

Frank knew why. Two people grew up out of the boots with their backs to him. His dad's broad back, and next to it Frank's thin one. Frank's arm upstretched, his hand in Dad's. They walked in their boots up over a boulder, maybe on their way to pick raspberries.

He suppressed a sob, tears rising in his throat. He stretched out his hand to touch the small boots. A salvo of laughter came from the living room. James’ voice, distorted. Probably imitating someone, he was good at that.

Frank's fingers closed over the top of the boots. He didn't know why but it felt right. He carefully opened the front door, closed it behind him. The night was icy cold, the snow a sea of tiny diamonds in the moonlight.

He started to walk up to the main road, with the boots tightly clasped in his hands.

-

The guard was sleeping, a young policeman who had been brought in after the hospital staff had protested against having one of them constantly assigned to guard Michael. The door was, however, secured with a coded lock. That was probably why he had dared to snooze.

Only a night lamp was on and Michael was studying the blurry shadows on the ceiling the way a healthy man might lie in the grass looking at clouds. He was looking for shapes, figures in the shadows. Didn't know if he would be able to read, but longed to do so.

Gerard was gone and everything that had dominated his old life was coming back. He would get a long prison sentence and he would devote that time to read everything he had not yet read and also to reread everything he had promised himself to reread.

He was going over all the books when a scraping sound interrupted him. He listened. More scraping. It was coming from the window. He turned his head as far as he could, looked in that direction. Against the dark sky there was a lighter oval, lit by the night lamp. A pale little blob appeared beside the oval, moving back and forth. A hand. Waving. The hand pulled along the window and that scraping, screeching sound came again.

Gerard.

Michael was grateful for the fact that he was not connected to an EKG machine as his heart began to race, fluttering like a bird in a net. He imagined his heart bursting out of his chest, crawling over the floor to the window.

_‘Come in, my brother, come in.’_

But the window was locked and even if it had been open his lips could not form the words that would allow Gerard to enter the room. He could perhaps make a gesture that meant the same thing, but he had never really understood all that.

_Can I?_

Tentatively he pulled one leg down off the bed, then the other. Put both feet on the floor, tried to stand. His legs did not want to carry his weight after lying in bed for ten days. He steadied himself against the railing, was about to fall to one side. The IV tube was stretched taut, tugging on the skin where it entered his body. Some kind of alarm was connected to the IV, a thin electric wire ran along the length of it. If he pulled the tube out at either end the alarm would go off. He moved his arm in the direction of the IV stand creating more slack, then turned to the window. Have to.

The IV stand had wheels, the batteries to the alarm were screwed in a little ways under the bag. He reached for the stand, grabbed hold of it. With the stand as support he stood up, slowly, slowly. The room swam around in front of his one eye as he took a tentative step, stopped, listened. The guard's breathing was still calm and regular. He shuffled through the room at a snail's pace. As soon as one of the wheels squeaked he stopped and listened. Something told him this was the last time he would see Gerard and he didn't intend to blow it.

His body was as exhausted as after a marathon when he finally reached the window and pressed his eye against it so the gelatinous membrane on his face was plastered onto the glass and his skin started to burn again. Only a few centimeters of double-paned glass separated his eye from his brother. Gerard moved his hand across the window as if to caress his deformed face. Michael held his eye as close to Gerard's as he could and still his sight was distorted. Gerard's black eyes dissolved, became fuzzy.

He had assumed his tear canal had burned away like everything else, but this wasn't the case. Tears welled up in his eye and blinded him more than he already had been. The provisional eyelid could not blink them away and so he carefully wiped his eye with his uninjured hand while his body shook with silent sobs. His hand fumbled for the window lock. Turned it. Snot ran out of the hole that had been his nose, dripping down onto the window sill as he opened the window.

Cold air rushed into the room. Only a matter of time before the guard woke up. Michael reached his arm, his healthy hand, through the window toward Gerard. Gerard pulled himself up onto the window ledge, took Michael’s hand between his own and held it to his forehead.

“Hello, Mikey.” Gerard whispered.

Michael nodded slowly to let him know he could hear him. Took his hand out of Gerard's and stroked him over the cheek. His skin like frozen silk. Everything came back. He wasn't going to rot in some jail cell surrounded by meaningless letters. Harassed by other prisoners for having committed the worst of all crimes. He would be with Gerard.

Gerard leaned close to him, curled up on the windowsill.

"What do you want me to do?"

Michael moved his hand from Gerard’s cheek and pointed to his throat.

Gerard shook his head.

"That would mean I'd have to kill you after. Mikey, no." Michael took his hand from his throat, brought it back to Gerard's face. Rested a finger for a moment on his closed eyelids. Then pulled it back. Pointed once more at his throat.

-

His breath came out in white clouds but he wasn't cold. After ten minutes Frank had reached the store. The moon had followed him from his dad's house, played hide-and-seek behind the spruce tops. Frank checked the time. Half past ten. He had seen on the bus schedule in the hall that the last bus from Rhode Island left around half past twelve.

He crossed the open space in front of the store, lit up by the lights of the gas pumps, walked out toward the road. He had never hitched a ride before and his mom would go crazy if she knew. Climbing into a complete stranger's car.

He walked faster, past a few lit-up houses. People were sitting in there having a good time. Kids sleeping in their beds without having to worry about their parents coming and waking them up to talk a lot of nonsense.

_This is Dad's fault, not mine._

He looked down at the boots he was still carrying in his hands, threw them into the ditch, stopped. The boots came to rest there, two dark splotches against the snow in the moonlight.

_Mom will never let me come out here again._

Dad would realize he was gone in maybe one hour. Then he would go outside and look for him, shout out his name. Then he would call Mom. Would he? Probably. To see if Frank had called her. Mom would realize Dad was drunk when he told her about Frank being gone and then it would be a big mess.

When he got to Boston he would call his dad from a pay phone and tell him he had gone back to New Jersey, that he was going to spend the night at a friend's house and then go back to Mom's tomorrow morning and not say anything about it. Then Dad would get his lesson without turning it into a catastrophe.

Frank walked down into the ditch and picked up the rubber boots, crumpled them up into his pockets, and kept walking along the road. Now everything was good. Now Frank was the one who decided where he was going and the moon shone kindly down on him, lighting up his way. He lifted his hand in greeting and started to sing.

"Here comes Fred Anderson, it's snowing on his hat..."

Then he didn't know any more of the lyrics so he hummed instead.

After a couple hundred meters, a car came. He heard it from far away and slowed down, holding out a raised thumb. The car drove past him, stopped, and backed up. The door to the passenger side opened; there was a woman in the car, a little younger than Mom. Nothing to be afraid of.

"Hello. Where are you headed?"

"New Jersey. Well, the buses."

"I'm gonna pass by the buses on my way."

Frank leaned into the car.

"Oh my, do your mom and dad know you're here?"

"Yes, but Dad's car has broken down."

The woman looked at him, seemed to be thinking something over.

"Okay, why don't you get in."

"Thanks."

Frank slid into the seat, closed the door behind him. They drove off.

"Do you want to be dropped off at the bus stop?"

"Yes, please."

Frank sat back in the seat, enjoying the warmth rising in his body, especially across his back. Must be one of those electric chairs. To think it was this easy. Lit-up houses flickered by.

"Do you live around here?"

"Not really. In Jersey."

"Jersey ... that's somewhere to the west, isn't it?"

"I think so."

"I see. Is there something important waiting for you?"

"Yeah."

"Must be something extra special for you to set off like this."

"Yes. It is."

-

It was cold in the room. His joints felt stiff after having rested so long in an uncomfortable position. The guard stretched and his joints creaked. He glanced at the hospital bed and was suddenly wide awake from the cold. He got to his feet unsteadily, looked around. Thank God. The man had not escaped. But how the hell had he managed to get over to the window? And- what is that?!

The murderer stood leaning against the windowsill with a black lump on one shoulder. His naked backside was visible under the hospital gown. The guard took a step toward the window, stopped, caught his breath. The lump was a head. A pair of dark eyes met his.

He fumbled for his weapon, realized he wasn't carrying one. For security reasons. The nearest weapon was kept in the safe out in the corridor. And anyway, this was just a child, he saw that now.

"You there! Keep absolutely still!"

He ran the three paces to the window and the child's head rose up from the man's throat. At the same moment the guard reached them the child jumped from the windowsill and disappeared upward. The feet dangled for a moment in the upper corner of the window before they vanished. Bare feet.

The guard stuck his head out the window, managed to catch sight of a body making its way across the roof, out of sight. The man by his side wheezed.

In the weak light he could see the man's shoulder and back were darkly stained. The man's head was hanging down and there was a fresh wound on his neck. Up on the roof he heard the light thuds of feet making their way across the sheet metal. He stood up, paralyzed.

Priorities. What were the priorities?

He could not remember. Save life first. Yes. But there were others who could ... he ran to the door, punched in the combination and ran slip-sliding out into the corridor, shouting:

"Nurse! Nurse! Come here! This is an emergency!"

He ran to the fire stairs while the night nurse came out of her office, jogging in the direction of the room he had just left. When they passed each other she asked: "What is it?"

"Emergency. It's an emergency. Get people in here, there's been a... murder."

The words didn't want to come. He had never experienced anything like this before. He had been assigned to this boring guard duty because he was inexperienced. Replaceable, so to speak. As he ran to the stairs he pulled out his radio and alerted the station, called for reinforcements.

-

The nurse tried to prepare for the worst: a body lying on the floor in a pool of blood. Hanging by a sheet from a hot water pipe. She had seen both.

When she walked into the room she saw only an empty bed. And something by the window. At first she thought it was a heap of clothes laid on the windowsill. Then she saw it was moving.

She rushed over to the window in order to stop him, but the man had gotten too far. He was already up on the windowsill, halfway out the window, when she started to run. She got there in time to catch a corner of his hospital gown before the man rolled his body off the sill, the IV pulling out of his arm. The sound of ripping fabric and then she stood there with a piece of blue cloth in her hand. After a couple of seconds she heard a distant, dull thud when the body hit the ground. Then the high-pitched alarm from the IV stand.

-

The taxi driver pulled around in front of the emergency room entrance. The older man in the back seat who, during the whole trip had entertained him with his medical history of heart trouble, opened the door and remained seated, expectantly.

The driver opened his door, walked around the side, and put out his arm to support the old man. Snow fell inside the collar of his jacket. The old one was about to take his arm but his gaze fixed on a point somewhere in the sky, and froze.

"Come on. I'll help you."

The old man pointed up. "What is that?"

The driver looked where he was pointing. A person was standing on the roof of the hospital. A small person. With a bare chest, arms held tightly along the side. He should send out an alert via the radio. But he just stood there, unable to move. If he moved some kind of balance would be upset and the little person would fall.

There was a pain in his hand where the old one gripped him with claw-like fingers, digging his nails into his palm. But still he didn't move. The snow fell into his eyes and he blinked. The person on the roof spread his or her arms, brought them up overhead. Something was suspended between the arms and the body, some kind of membrane ... webbing. The old man pulled on his hand, got up out of the car, and stood next to him.

At the same time as the old man's shoulder touched his, the little person... the child... fell straight out. He gasped and the old one's fingers again dug into his hand. The child fell straight at them. Instinctively they both ducked, putting their arms up over their heads. Nothing happened.

When they looked up again the child was gone. The driver looked around, but all they could see around them was the falling snow in the glow of the street lamps. The old man drew a rattling breath.

"It was the angel of death. The angel of death. I will never leave this place alive."

 -

**Sunday, November 8 (Small hours)**

The very vocal group of boys and girls had gotten at the stop after Frank got on. They were maybe Ray's age. Drunk. The guys howled from time to time, fell on top of the girls, and the girls laughed, beating them off. Then they sang again. The same song, over and over. Frank looked at them in secret.

_I'm never going to be like that._

Unfortunately. He would have liked to. It looked like fun. But Frank would never manage to be like that, do what the guys did. One of them stood up on his seat and sang loudly. An old man who was dozing in a handicapped seat at one end of the subway car shouted out: "Keep it down, will you? I'm trying to sleep."

One of the girls gave him the finger.

"You can sleep at home!"

The whole gang laughed and started in on the song again. A few seats away there was a man reading a book. Frank craned his neck so he could read the title, but could only see the name of the author. Nobody he had ever heard of. In the nearest block of two-seaters facing each other there was an old woman with a handbag on her lap. She was talking to herself in a low voice, gesturing to an invisible interlocutor.

He had never taken the subway this late before. Were these the same people who in the daytime sat quietly and stared in front of them, or read newspapers? Or was this a special group that only appeared at night?

The man with the book turned the page. Strangely enough Frank had no book with him. Too bad. He would have wanted to be like that man, reading a book, oblivious to everything around him. But he only had his Walkman and the Cube. Had been planning to listen to the Black Flag tape he had gotten from Ray, had tried it a little on the bus but got sick of it after only a couple of songs.

He took his Cube out of his bag. Three sides were solved. Only an insignificant amount needed to be done on the fourth. Gerard and he had spent one evening working on it together, talked about how you could do it and since then Frank had become better. He looked at all sides and tried to think up a strategy but couldn't get past thinking of Gerard's face.

What will he look like?

He wasn't afraid. He was in a state of calm. He could not be here, at this time, could not be doing what he was doing. It didn't exist. It wasn't him.

_I don't exist and no one can do anything to me._

He had called his dad from Boston and his dad had cried on the phone. Said he would call for someone to go and pick up Frank. It was the second time in his life Frank heard his father cry. For a moment Frank was about to give in. But when his dad had gotten worked up and started yelling about how he had to have his own life and be allowed to do as he damn well pleased in his own house, Frank had hung up on him. That was when it had really started, that feeling that he didn't really exist.

The group of boys and girls got off two stops later. One of the guys turned around and shouted into the subway car.

"Sweet dreams, my, my… "

He couldn't think of the word and one of the girls pulled him back with her. Just before the doors closed he tore himself away and ran over to them, holding one open and shouting:

"... fellow passengers! Sweet dreams, my fellow passengers!"

He let go of the door and the subway car started to go. The reading man lowered his book and looked at the young people on the platform. Then he turned to Frank and looked him in the eyes. And smiled. Frank smiled back briefly, then pretended to turn his attention back to the Cube.

In his chest a feeling of having passed muster. The man had looked at him and transmitted the thought, You're alright. What you're doing is good. He didn't dare look up at the man anymore. He felt like the man knew. Frank turned the Cube one click, then turned it back.

-

With the exception of Frank, two people got off at the stop before Frank’s, from other subway cars. An older guy he didn't recognize and then a metal guy who appeared very drunk. The metal guy walked up to the older guy and shouted.

"Hey man, spare a cigarette?"

"Sorry, don't smoke."

The metal guy didn't appear to hear more than the negative, because he drew a ten dollar bill from his pocket and waved it around. "I got ten! One stick is all I need, man."

The guy shook his head and walked away. The metal guy stood still, swaying, and when Frank walked past he lifted his head.

"You!" But his eyes narrowed, he focused them on Frank, and then he shook his head. "No. Nothing. Go in peace, brother."

Frank kept going up the stairs, up into the subway station. Wondered if the metal guy was planning to pee on the electric rail. The older guy went out through the exit doors. Except for the ticket collector in his booth, Frank was alone in the station.

Everything was so different at night. The photo shop, florist, and clothing store in the station were dark. The ticket collector sat with his feet up on the counter, reading something. So quiet. The clock on the wall said a few minutes past two. He should be lying in bed now. Sleeping. Should at the very least be sleepy. But no. He was so tired his body felt hollow, but it was a hollowness filled with electricity. Not sleepiness.

A door down by the platform was thrown open and he heard the rockabilly guy's voice from down there: "And bow down, you officers in your helmets and batons..."

Same song he had been singing. He chuckled and started to run. Ran out the doors, down the hill toward the school, past it and the parking lot. It had started to snow again and the large flakes squelched the heat in his face. He looked up as he was running. The moon was still there, peeking out between the houses.

Once he was in the courtyard he stopped, caught his breath. Almost all the windows were dark, but wasn't there a faint light coming from behind the blinds of Gerard's apartment? What will he look like?

He walked up the sloping yard, glancing at his own dark window. The normal Frank was lying in there, sleeping. Frank, pre-Gerard. Frank unlocked the door to his building and walked through the basement corridor over to his, did not stop to see if the stain was still on the floor. Just walked past it. It didn't exist any longer. He had no mom, no dad, no earlier life, he was simply here. He walked through the door, up the stairs.

Stood there on the landing, looking at the worn wooden door, the empty name plate. Behind that door. He had imagined he was going to dash up the stairs, make a dive for the bell. Instead he sat down on the next to last step, next to the door. What if he didn't want him to come?

After all, Gerard was the one who had run away from him. He would maybe tell him to go away, that he wanted to be left alone.

The basement storage room. Ray's gang. He could sleep there, on the couch. They weren't there at night, were they? Then he could see Gerard tomorrow evening, like normal. But it won't be like normal.

He stared at the doorbell. Things would not simply return to normal. Something big had to be done. Like running away, hitchhiking, making your way home in the middle of the night to show that it was important. What he was scared of was not that maybe he was a creature who survived by drinking other people's blood. No, it was that he might push him away.

He rang the bell.

A shrill sound rang out inside the apartment, stopped abruptly when he let go of the button. He stood there, waiting. Rang it again, longer this time. Nothing. Not even a sound. Gerard wasn't home. Frank sat still on the step while disappointment sank like a stone to his stomach. And he suddenly felt so tired, so very tired. He got up slowly, walked down the stairs. Halfway down he had an idea. Stupid, but why not. Walked up to his door again and with short and long tones of the doorbell he spelled out his name in Morse code.

\--. . .-. .- .-. -..

G E R A R D

Waited. No sound from the other side. He turned to leave when he heard his voice.

"Frank? Is that you?"

"Yes!"

-

In order to have something to do, Mae Carlberg got herself a cup of coffee from the room behind the reception desk, sat down at the darkened counter. She should have finished her shift an hour ago but the police had asked her to wait.

A couple of men who were not dressed like police officers were painstakingly brushing a kind of powder onto the floor where the little boy had walked in his bare feet. The policeman who had questioned her about what the boy had said, done, what he looked like, had not been friendly. The whole time Mae got the impression from the tone in his voice that she had done the wrong thing. But how could she have known?

Henry, one of the security guards, whose shift often overlapped with hers, came over to the reception desk and pointed at her cup of coffee.

"For me?"

"If you like."

Henry picked up the cup, took a sip, and looked out into the hall. Apart from the men who were brushing the floor for prints there was also a uniformed policeman who was talking to a taxi driver.

"A lot of people tonight."

"I don't understand any of it. How did he get up there?"

"No idea. They're working on it. Looks like he climbed up the walls."

"But surely that's not possible."

"No."

Henry took a bag of licorice boats out of his pocket and held them out to her. Mae shook her head and Henry took three pieces, put them in his mouth, and shrugged apologetically.

"I stopped smoking. Put on four kilos in two weeks." He made a face. "Christ. You should have seen him."

"Him? The murderer?"

"Yes. It splattered over the whole wall. And his face. Shit. If I ever have to kill myself it'll be pills. Just think about the guys who do the autopsy. To have to—"

"Henry."

"Yes?"

"Stop."

-

Gerard was standing in the open door. Frank was sitting on the step. In one hand he was squeezing the handle of the bag, like he was prepared to leave at any moment. Gerard pushed a tendril of hair behind his ear. He looked completely healthy. A little boy, unsure of himself. He looked down at his hands.

"Are you coming?" Gerard asked. 

"Yes."

Gerard nodded almost imperceptibly, fidgeting with his fingers. Frank was still sitting on the step.

"Can I come in?"

"Yes."

The devil flew into him. "Say that I can come in." He said. 

Gerard lifted his head, made an attempt to say something, but didn't. He started to close the door a little, stopped. Shifted his weight between his bare feet.

"You can come in."

Gerard turned and walked into the apartment, Frank followed, closing the door behind him. He put the bag down in the hall, took off his jacket and hung it on the hat shelf with little hooks underneath where, he noted, nothing else was hanging.

Gerard was standing in the door to the living room with his arms limp at his sides. He was wearing boxers and a red T-shirt with the words IRON MAIDEN on it, over a picture of the skeleton monster they had on their albums. Frank thought he recognized it. Had seen it in the trash room at some point. Was it the same one?

Gerard was studying his dirty feet.

"Why did you say that?"

"You said it."

"Yes. Frank… "

He hesitated. Frank stayed in the same position, with his hand on the jacket he had just hung up. He looked at the jacket as he asked:

"Are you a vampire?"

He wrapped his arms around his body, slowly shook his head.

"I live on blood. But I am not that."

"What's the difference?"

"There's a very big difference." He looked him in the eyes and said somewhat more forcefully.

Frank saw his toes tense, relax, tense. His naked legs were very thin, where the T-shirt stopped he could see the edge of a pair of blue boxers. He gestured to him. "Are you kind of... dead?"

Gerard smiled for the first time since he had arrived.

"No. Can't you tell?"

"No, but, I mean- did you die once, a long time ago?"

"No, but I've lived for a long time."

"Are you old?"

"No. I'm only twelve. But I've been that for a long time."

"So you are old, inside. In your head."

"No, I'm not. That's the only thing I still think is strange. I don't understand it. Why I never, in a way, get any older than twelve."

Frank thought about it, stroking the arm of his jacket.

"Maybe that's just it, though."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you can't understand why you're only twelve years old, because you _are_ twelve years old."

Gerard frowned. "Are you saying I'm stupid?"

"No, just a bit slow. Like kids are."

"I see. How are you doing with the Cube?"

Frank snorted, met his gaze, and remembered that thing about his pupils. Now they looked normal but they had looked really strange before, hadn't they? But still, it was too much. Couldn't believe it.

"Gerard. You're just making all this up, aren't you?"

Gerard stroked the skeleton monster on his belly, let his hand stop right over the monster's gaping mouth.

"Do you still want to be blood brothers?"

Frank took half a step back.

"No."

Gerard looked up at him. Sad, almost accusing.

"Not like that. Don't you understand?" He stopped. Frank finished the sentence for him.

"That if you had wanted to kill me you would have done it a long time ago."

Gerard nodded. Frank took another half step back. How quickly could he get out the door? Should he leave the bag behind? Gerard didn't seem to notice his anxiety, his impulse to flee. Frank stayed put, his muscles tensed.

"Will I get... infected?"

Still looking down at the monster on his T-shirt, Gerard shook his head. "I don't want to infect anyone. Least of all you."

"What is it then? This alliance."

He lifted his head to the point where he thought his face would be, saw that he was no longer there. Hesitated. Then walked up to him, took his head between his hands. Frank let him do it. Gerard looked blank. Distant. But no hint of that face he had seen in the cellar. His fingertips brushed against his ears. A sense of calm welled up quietly inside of his body. Let it happen. No matter what.

Gerard's face was twenty centimeters from his own. His breath smelled funny, like the shed where his dad kept metal scraps and parts. He smelled rusty. The tip of his finger stroked his ear.

"I'm all alone. No one knows. Do you want to?" Gerard whispered.

Gerard quickly brought his face up to Frank’s, sealed his lips over his upper lip, held it firm with a light, steady pressure. His lips were warm and dry. Saliva started in his mouth and when he closed his own lips around Frank's lower one it moistened it, softened. They carefully tasted each others' lips, let them glide over each other, and Frank disappeared into a warm darkness that gradually lightened.

Gerard's lips left his. He let go of his head, took a step back. Even though it scared him, Frank tried to hold onto the feeling of the kiss, but it was fading already. Gerard scrutinized him. Frank rubbed his eyes, nodded. They stood there for a while, not saying anything.

"Do you want to come in?" Gerard asked.

Frank didn't reply. Gerard pulled on his T-shirt, lifted his hands, let them fall.

"I'm never going to hurt you."

"I know that."

"What are you thinking about?"

"That T-shirt. Is it from the trash room?"

“... Yes.

"Have you washed it?"

Gerard didn't answer.

"You're a little gross, you know that?"

"I can change out of it, if you like."

"Good. Do that."

-

The living room was not as empty as the hall and the kitchen. Here there was a sofa, an armchair, and a large coffee table with a lot of little things on it. A lone floor lamp sent a soft yellow glow over the table. But that was all. No carpets, no pictures, no TV. Thick blankets had been draped over the windows. It looked like a prison. A big prison cell.

Frank whistled, tentatively. There was an echo, but not too much. Probably because of the blankets. He put his bag down next to the armchair. The click when the bottom of it landed on the hard cork flooring was amplified, sounded desolate. He had started to look at the things on the table when Gerard came out of the next room, now wearing his too-big checkered shirt. Frank waved his arm, indicating the living room.

"Are you two moving?"

"No. Why?"

"I was just wondering."

“You two.”

Why didn't he think of it before? Frank let his gaze travel over the things on the table. Looked like toys, every last one of them. Old toys.

"That old man who was here before. That wasn't your dad, was it?"

"No."

"Was he also…?"

"No."

Frank nodded. Looked around the room again. Hard to imagine anyone could live like this.

"Are you sort of… poor?"

Gerard walked over to the table, picked up a box that looked like a black egg, and handed it to Frank. He leaned over, held it under the lamp in order to see better. The surface of the egg was rough and when Frank looked more closely he saw hundreds of complex strands of gold thread. The egg was heavy, as if the whole thing was made of some kind of metal. Frank turned it this way and that, looked at the gold threads embedded on the egg's surface. Gerard stood next to Frank. He smelled it again. The smell of rust.

"What's it worth, do you think?"

"Don't know. A lot?"

"There are only two of them in the world. If you had both of them you could sell them and buy yourself... a nuclear power plant, maybe."

"No way."

"Well, I don't know. What does a nuclear power plant cost? Fifty million?"

"I think it would cost billions."

"Really? In that case I guess you couldn't."

"What would you do with a nuclear power plant anyways?"

Gerard laughed.

"Put it between your hands. Like this. Cup them. And then you let it roll back and forth."

Frank did as Gerard said. Rolled the egg gently back and forth in his cupped hands and felt the egg crack, collapse between his palms. He gasped and removed the upper hand. The egg was now just a heap of hundreds, thousands of tiny slivers.

"Gosh, I'm sorry. I was careful, I-"

"Shhh. It's supposed to be like that. Make sure you don't drop any of it. Pour them out onto this."

Gerard pointed to a piece of white paper on the table. Frank held his breath as he gently let the glittering shards fall out of his hand. The individual pieces were smaller than drops of water and Frank had to use his other hand to wipe his palm free of every last one.

"But it broke."

"Here. Look."

Gerard pulled the lamp closer to the table, concentrated its dim light on the heap of metal slivers. Frank leaned over and looked. One piece, no bigger than a tick, lay on its own to one side of the stack, and when he looked very closely he could see that it had indentations and notches on a few sides, almost microscopic light bulb-shaped protrusions on the other. He got it.

"It's a puzzle."

"Yes."

"But, can you put it back together again?"

"I think so."

"It’ll take forever."

"Yes."

Frank looked at more pieces that were spread out next to the pile. They looked to be identical to the first, but when he looked closer he saw there were subtle variations. The notches were not in exactly the same place; the protrusions were at another angle. He also saw a piece was all smooth sided, except for a gold border a hair's width across. A piece of the outside.

"It would drive me crazy." He slouched down into the armchair.

"Think about the guy who made it."

Gerard rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out so he looked like the dwarf Dopey. Frank laughed. When he stopped the sound still vibrated in the walls. Desolate. Gerard sat down on the couch and crossed his legs, looking at him with anticipation. He looked away and looked at the table, and the toys that made a landscape of ruins.

Desolate.

All at once he felt tired in that way again. He wasn't "his guy," couldn't be that. He was something else. There was a big distance between them that couldn't be found. He shut his eyes, leaned back in the armchair, and the black behind his eyelids was the space that separated them. He dozed off, gliding into a momentary dream.

The space between them was filled with ugly, sticky insects that flew at him and when they got closer he saw they had teeth. He waved his hand to get rid of them, and woke up. Gerard was sitting on the couch watching him.

"Frank, I'm a person, just like you. It's just that I have a very unusual illness."

Frank nodded.

A thought wanted to get out. Something. A context. He didn't catch hold of it. Dropped it. But then another thought came out, the terrible, frightening one. That Gerard was just pretending. That there was an ancient person inside of him, watching Frank, who knew everything, and was smiling at him, smiling in secret. But that can't he. In order to have something to do, he dug around in his bag for the Walkman, took out the tape that was in it.

_I should go home._

Gerard leaned forward.

"What's that?"

"This? It's a Walkman."

"Is it for... listening to music?"

"Yes."

He doesn't know anything. He’s super intelligent but he doesn't know anything. What does he do all day? Sleep, of course. Where does he keep the coffin? That's right. He never slept those times he came over. He simply lay there in the bed and waited for the sun to come up.

"Can I try it?"

Frank held it out to him. He took it and looked like he didn't know what to do with it, but then put the headphones on and looked inquiringly at him. Frank pointed at the buttons.

"Press the one that says 'play'."

Gerard read the top of the buttons, selected play. Frank felt a calm settle over him. This was normal; playing your music for a friend. He wondered what Gerard would think of Black Flag.

He pushed in the button, and even from his armchair Frank could hear the whispery, noisy jangle of guitar, drums, and vocals. He had ended up in the middle of one of the heavier songs.

Gerard's eyes opened wide, he screamed in pain, and Frank was so shocked he was thrown back in the armchair. It tipped back, almost falling over while he watched Gerard tear the headphones off so violently that the cables became detached, threw them down, pressed his hands against his ears, whimpering. Frank gaped, staring at the headphones that had hit the wall. He got to his feet, picked them up. Completely destroyed. Both of the cords had been torn out of the earpieces. He put them on the table and sank down into the armchair again. Gerard removed his hands from his ears.

"Sorry, I... it hurt so much."

"Don't worry about it."

"Was it expensive?"

"No, not so much."

Gerard took down the highest moving box, reached into it, and fished out a couple of banknotes, holding them out to Frank.

"Here."

He took them, counted them out. Three thousand dollar bills. He felt something akin to fear, looked at the carton he had taken the money from, back at Gerard, back at the money.

"I- it cost fifty bucks."

"Take it anyway."

"No, but, it- it was only the headphones that broke and they-"

"But you can have it. Please?"

Frank hesitated, then crumpled the notes into his pants pocket while he mentally calculated their worth in advertising flyers. Around one year of Saturdays, maybe. Twenty-five thousand delivered flyers. One hundred and fifty hours. More. A fortune. The bills in his pocket rubbed uncomfortably against him.

"Thanks."

Gerard nodded, picked something up off the table that looked like a knot of wires but that was probably a brain teaser. Frank looked at him as he fiddled with the knots. His neck bent, his long thin fingers that flew over the wires. He went over everything he had told him. His dad, the aunt who lived in the city, the school he went to. Lies, all of it.

And where had he gotten the money from? Stolen?

Frank was so unaccustomed to the feeling he didn't even know what it was at first. It started like a kind of tingle in his head, continued into his body, then made a sharp, cold arc back from his stomach to his head. He was angry. Not desperate or scared. Angry. Because Gerard had lied to him. Who had he stolen the money from anyway? From someone he had…? He crossed his arms over his stomach, leaned back.

"You kill people."

"Frank..."

"You kill people. Take their money."

"I've been given the money."

"You're just lying. The whole time."

"It's true."

"What part is true? That you're lying?"

Gerard put down the tangle of knots and looked at him with wounded eyes, threw his arms out. "What do you want me to do?"

"Prove it to me."

"Prove what?"

"That you are who you say you are."

He looked at him for a long time. Then he shook his head.

"I don't want to."

"Why not."

"Guess."

Frank sank deeper into the armchair. Felt the small wad of bills in his pocket. Saw the bundles of advertising flyers in his mind. That had arrived this morning. That had to be delivered before Tuesday. Gray fatigue in his body. Tears in his head. Anger. " _Guess_." More games. More lies. Wanted to leave. To sleep.

_The money. He gave me money so I would stay._

He got up out of the armchair, took out the crumpled bills from his pocket, laid everything except a hundred dollar bill on the table. Put it back in his pocket and said "I'm going home."

He leaned over, grabbed his wrist. "Stay. Please."

"Why? All you do is lie."

He tried to move away from him, but his grip on his wrist hardened.

"Let me go!"

"I'm not some freak from the circus!"

"Let me go." Frank clenched his teeth, said calmly.

Gerard did not let go. The cold arc of anger in Frank's chest started to vibrate, sing, and he threw himself on top of him. Landed on top of him and pressed him backwards into the couch. He weighed almost nothing and he had him pinned up against the armrest, sat down on his chest while the arc bent, shook, made black dots in front of his eyes as he raised his arm and hit him in the face as hard as he could.

A sharp slapping sound bounced between the walls and his head jerked to the side, drops of saliva flew out of his mouth, and his hand burned. The arc cracked, fell to pieces, and his anger dissolved.

He sat on his chest, looked bewildered at his little head that lay turned in profile against the black leather of the couch as a flush bloomed on the cheek he had struck. He lay still, his eyes open. Frank rubbed his hands over his face.

"Sorry. Sorry. I-"

Suddenly he turned around, threw him off his chest, pushed him up against the back of the couch. He tried to get a grip on his shoulders, but missed, got ahold of Gerard’s hips, and he landed with his belly right over his face. Frank threw him off, twisted around, and both of them tried to get ahold of the other. They rolled around on the couch, wrestling. With tensed muscles and utter concentration. But with care, so that neither would hurt the other. They snaked around each other, bumped against the table.

Pieces of the black egg fell to the floor with the sound of raindrops on a metal roof.

-

They lay next to each other on the couch, sweating, panting. Frank was sore all over, exhausted. He yawned so wide his jaw cracked. Gerard also yawned. Frank turned his head to him.

"Give it up."

“Excuse me?”

"You aren't really tired, are you?"

"No."

Frank made an effort to keep his eyes open, was talking almost without moving his lips. Gerard's face was starting to appear foggy, unreal.

"What do you do? To get blood."

Gerard looked at him. For a long time. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something and Frank saw how something moved inside his cheeks, lips, as if he was swirling his tongue around in there. Then he parted his lips, opened wide. And he saw Gerard’s teeth. He closed his mouth again.

Frank turned away and looked up at the ceiling, where a thread of dusty cobwebs stretched down from the unused overhead light. He didn't even have the energy to be surprised. Oh, he was a vampire. But he already knew that.

"Are there a lot of you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

"No, I don't."

Frank's gaze roamed the ceiling, trying to locate more cobwebs. Found two. Thought he saw a spider crawling on one of them. He blinked. Blinked again. Eyes full of sand. No spider.

"What do I call you, then? This _thing_ that you are."

"Gerard."

"Is that really your name?"

“Yes.”

Frank closed his eyes. Couldn't take any more. His eyelids had glued themselves shut onto his eyeballs. A black hole was growing, enveloping his whole body. There was a faint impression somewhere far away at the very back of his head that he should say something, do something. But he didn't have the energy.

The black hole exploded in slow motion. He was sucked forward, inward, turned a slow somersault in space, into sleep.

Far away he felt someone stroke his cheek. Didn't manage to articulate the thought that, because he felt it, it must be his own. But somewhere, on a planet far far away, someone gently stroked someone's cheek.

Then there were only stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i took a really long hiatus from this adaptation but im gonna finish it so if you like it thank you for reading :-)


	4. We are the troll company.

**Sunday, November 8**

Mass started at nine o'clock, but Ray and his mom were already on the platform at a quarter past eight, waiting for the subway. Steven, who was singing in the choir, had already informed Ray's mom what the theme of today's mass was going to be. Ray's mom had told him about it, cautiously asking if he wanted to go. To her surprise he had said yes.

The theme for mass was about the youth of today. Taking their starting point from a place in the Old Testament that described the Israelites' exodus from Egypt, the ministers had (with Steven's help) crafted a series of texts around the idea of guiding stars. Something a young person in today's society could, so to speak, hold up before him, something he could use to guide him through his desert wanderings, and so forth.

Ray had read this particular passage in the Bible and then said he was happy to attend. So when the subway came thundering out of the tunnel this morning, propelling a pillar of air in front of it that caused Ray's mom's hair to fly around, she was completely happy. She looked at her son, who was standing next to her with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his jacket.

It's going to be alright. Simply the fact that he was willing to come to church with her was big enough. But this also pointed to the fact that he had accepted Steven, didn't it?

They got on the subway car and sat down next to an old man, across from each other. Before they got on the train they had been talking about what they had heard on the radio this morning: the death of the ritual killer. Ray's mom leaned forward to Ray.

"What do you think?"

Ray shrugged. "Hm. But it's a big deal. I’ll have to ask Steven."

"I just think the whole thing is so horrible. What if he came here?"

"He might as well have come here."

"Ugh."

The older man stretched, made a movement like he was shaking something off his shoulders. "You have to ask yourself if someone like that is even human."

Ray looked up at the man. Ray's mom said, "Hm," and smiled at him, which the man clearly took as an encouragement.

"I mean, first those terrible deeds, and then in that condition, a fall of that magnitude, a death like that. No, I tell you, he can't be human."

Ray nodded, pretending to agree. "Shoulda hanged him in the nearest tree."

The man was getting excited.

"Exactly. That's what I've been saying this whole time. They should have given him a lethal injection or something while he was in the hospital, like you do with crazy dogs. Then we would have the satisfaction to ourselves. Instead they give him plastic surgery and helicopters. Oh, they can afford _that_ alright. But when it comes to paying out pensions large enough to live on, after a lifetime of service to society, that, _that_ they can't do. But to send a helicopter up there circling around, scaring everyone out of their wits..."

The monologue continued all the way to their stop, where they got off while the man stayed on. The train was going to turn here, so he was probably going back the way he came in order to maybe continue his monologue with a different audience.

Steven was waiting for them outside the brick heap that was the St. Thomas church. He was wearing a suit and a pale yellow-striped tie that made Ray think of the picture from the war. Steven's face lit up when he saw them, and he walked forward to greet them. He embraced Ray's mom and held his hand out to Ray, who shook it.

"I'm so glad both of you wanted to come. Especially you, Ray. What made you decide?"

"I just wanted to see what it was like."

"Ah. Well, I hope you'll like it. That we'll get to see you here again."

His mom stroked Ray's shoulder. "He read that part in the Bible. The passage you're going to be talking about."

"Has he, indeed? Well, that's very impressive. By the way, Ray. I haven't found that trophy yet. But, I think maybe we should just write it off, what do you say?"

"Mmm."

Steven waited for Ray to say something, but when he didn't, Steven turned back to Ray's mom. "I should be at the station right now, but I didn't want to miss this. But as soon as it's over I'll have to go, so we'll have to… "

Ray walked into the church. There were only a few older people, with their backs to him, sitting in the pews. Judging by their hats they were all old ladies.

The church was lit up by a yellow light coming from lamps that were suspended along either wall. In the walkway down between the pews there was a red carpet all the way to the altar, woven with geometric figures. A stone bench with some flower arrangements. Above all that there was a large wooden cross with a modernist Jesus. His facial expression could easily be interpreted as a taunting smile.

At the very back of the church, by the entrance where Ray was, there was a stand with brochures, a box to put money in, and a christening font. Ray walked up to the font and looked in. It was perfect.

When he first saw it he thought it looked too good to be true, that it was probably filled with water. But it wasn't. The whole christening font was carved out of one large piece of stone that reached up to Ray's waist. The bowl part was dark gray, had a rough surface and did not have a single drop of water in it. He decided there was no time better than now to do it.

He pulled out a two-liter plastic bag from his pocket, filled with a white powder. Looked around. No one even looking in his direction. He made a hole in the bag with his finger and let its contents run down into the christening font.

Then he tucked the empty bag back in his pocket and walked back out, while he tried to figure out a good explanation for why he didn't want to sit up next to his mom in church, why he wanted to sit way back, next to the christening font.

Could say he wanted to be able to leave without disturbing anyone, if it got too boring. That was good. That sounded perfect.

-

Frank opened his eyes and was filled with anxiety. He didn't know where he was. The room around him was only dimly lit and he didn't recognize the bare walls. He was lying on a couch, a blanket pulled over him that smelled a little.

The walls floated in front of his eyes, swimming freely in the air while he tried to put them in their place, organize them so they made a room he recognized. He couldn't. He pulled the blanket up to his nose. A mildewy smell filled his nostrils and he tried to calm down, stop working on the room and remember instead.

Now he remembered.

Dad. James. Hitching a ride. Gerard. The couch. Cobwebs.

He stared up at the ceiling. The dusty cobwebs were still up there, hard to discern in the half-light. He had fallen asleep with Gerard next to him on the couch. How long ago was that? Was it morning?

The windows were covered by blankets, but in the corners he could make out a faint outline of gray light. He pulled off the blanket and walked over to the window, lifted the corner of the blanket. The blinds were drawn. He angled them open and yes, it was morning out there.

His head ached and the light stung his eyes. He drew his breath in sharply, dropped the blanket, and felt his neck with both hands. No. Of course not. He had said he would never.

But where is he?

He looked around the room; his eyes stopped at the closed door to the room where Gerard had changed his shirt. He took a few steps toward the door, stopped himself. The door lay in shadow. He balled his hands up, sucked on a knuckle.

What if he really sleeps in a coffin?

Silly. Why would he do that? Why do vampires do that anyway? Because they're dead. And Gerard said he wasn't. But what if?

He sucked on his knuckle, ran his tongue over it. His kiss. And his teeth. A predator's teeth. If only it wasn't so dark in here.

The switch for the overhead lamp was next to the door. He pushed on it, thinking nothing would happen, but it went on. He hurt his eyes in the strong light, let them get used to it before he turned to the door, rested his hand on the door handle.

The light didn't help at all. In fact it was only more horrible now that the door was only a normal door. Like the door to his own room. Exactly the same. The door handle felt the same. What if Gerard was lying in there? Maybe his arms neatly folded across his chest? He had to look.

He pushed the handle down, tentatively. It only offered light resistance. The door must not be locked, then it would only have glided down. He pushed it down all the way and the door opened, the gap widened. The room inside was dark.

Would he be hurt by the light if he opened the door?

No, yesterday he had sat next to the floor lamp without it seeming to bother him. But the overhead light was stronger and perhaps there was a special kind of bulb in the floor lamp, a light that vampires could withstand.

Ridiculous. The specialty store for vampire lamps.

And why would he have let the overhead light remain in place if it could be harmful to him?

Even so, he opened the door cautiously, allowing the cone of light to slowly widen into the room. It was as sparsely furnished as the living room. A bed and a pile of clothes, nothing more. The bed only had a sheet and a single pillow. The blanket he had slept with on the couch must have come from there. There was a note taped to the wall next to the bed.

The Morse code.

So it was here he had been lying when he tapped on the wall. He drew a deep breath. He had managed to forget it.

My room is on the other side of this wall.

He was two meters from his own bed, from his own normal life.

He lay down on the bed, had the impulse to tap out a message on the wall. To Frank. On the other side. What should he say?

.-- .... . .-. .  .- .-. .  -.-- --- ..-

W H E R E  A R E  Y O U

He sucked on his knuckle again. He was here. It was Gerard who was gone.

He felt dizzy, confused. Let his head flop down onto the pillow, his face turned out facing the room. The pillow smelled funny. Like the blanket, but stronger. A stale, greasy smell. He looked at the pile of clothes a few meters from the bed.

It's so repulsive.

He didn't want to be here anymore. It was completely quiet and empty in the apartment, and everything was so abnormal, unreal. His gaze traveled over the pile of clothes, stopped at the closets that covered the whole length of the opposite wall, all the way to the door. Two double closets, one single.

There.

He pulled his legs up against his stomach, staring at the closed closet doors. He didn't want to. Frank’s stomach hurt. He had to pee.

He stood up from the bed, walked to the door with his eyes glued to the closet doors. He had the same kind of closets in his room and knew Gerard could easily fit inside. That's where he was and he didn't want to see anymore.

Even the light in the hall worked. He turned it on and walked along the short corridor to the bathroom. The door to the bathroom was locked. The colored strip above the handle was red. He knocked on the door.

"Gerard?"

Not a sound. He knocked again.

"Gerard? Are you in there?"

Nothing. But when he said his name aloud he remembered that it was wrong. A boy's name. Gerard was a boy. They had kissed and slept in the same bed.

Frank pressed his hands against the bathroom door, rested his forehead against his hands. He tried to think. Hard. And he didn't get it. That he could somehow accept that he was a vampire, but the idea that he was somehow a boy, that that could be harder.

He knew the word. Fag. _Fucking_ fag. Stuff that Dominic said. To think it was worse to be gay than to be a…

He knocked on the door again.

"Gerard?"

A weird feeling in his stomach as he said it. No, he wasn't going to get used to it. His real name was Gerard. But it was too much. Regardless of what Gerard was, it was too much. He just couldn't. Nothing about him was normal.

He lifted his forehead from his hands, held the pee back firmly.

Steps outside in the stairwell and shortly thereafter a sound of the mailbox opening, a thud. He walked out there and looked at what it was. Advertising.

_Ground beef. $2.90 per pound._

Garish red letters and numbers. He picked up the advertisements in his hand with dawning comprehension; pressed his eyes against the keyhole while footsteps echoed in the stairwell. More bangs as additional mail flaps were opened and shut.

After half a minute his mom passed by the keyhole, on her way down. He only managed to catch a glimpse of her hair, the collar of her coat, but he knew it was her. Who else would it be?

Delivering the advertising packets in his absence.

With the flyers clenched in his hand, Frank sank down into a crouch by the front door, leaned his forehead against his knees. He didn't cry. The need to pee was like a stinging nest of ants in his groin that in some way prevented him.

But the thought ran through his head over and over.

_I don't exist. I don't exist. I don't exist._

-

“We see them on streets and squares and we find ourselves standing in before them at a loss, saying to ourselves: what can we do?"

Ray had never been this bored in his whole life. The service had only been going for half an hour and he thought he would have had more fun if he had sat in a chair staring at the wall.

" _Blessed be_ " and " _Hallelujah!_ " and " _Joy of the Lord,_ " but why did they all sit there staring in front of them like they were watching a qualifying match between Bulgaria and Romania? It didn't mean anything to them, that stuff they read in the book, that they sang about. Didn't seem to mean anything to the minister either. Just something he had to get through in order to collect his paycheck.

Now the sermon was underway, at least. If the minister mentioned that place in the Bible, that stuff Ray had read, then he would do it. Otherwise he wouldn't. Let him decide.

Ray checked his pocket. Everything was ready and the christening font was only three meters behind him from where he sat in the back row. His mom was sitting in the very front, no doubt so she could twinkle at Steven as he sang his meaningless songs with his hands loosely clasped in front of his police dick.

Ray clenched his teeth. He hoped the minister was going to say it.

"We see a lost look in their eyes, the look of someone who has wandered astray and is unable to find his way back home. When I see a young person like this, I always think about the Israelites' exodus from Egypt."

Ray stiffened. But maybe the minister was not going to mention that exact place. Maybe it would be something about the Red Sea. Still, he took the stuff out of his pocket; a lighter and a small tinder cube. His hands were trembling.

"For it is thus we have to view these young people who sometimes leave us so perplexed. They are wandering in a desert of unanswered questions and unclear future prospects. But there is a great difference between the people of Israel and the young people of today...."

_Go on, say it..._

"The people of Israel had someone _leading_ them. You are probably familiar with the words of the Scripture. 'And the Lord went before them, by day in a pillar of cloud.”

He had done this a bunch of times. Burned saltpeter and sugar. But rarely in this quantity, and never inside. He was excited to find out what the effect would be without a wind to disperse the fumes. He interlaced his fingers, pressing his damp hands hard together.

-

Beck Ardelius, temporary minister of the parish, was the first to notice it. He took it for what it was. Smoke from the christening font. He had been waiting for a sign from the Lord his whole life and it was undeniably the case that when he saw the first pillar of smoke he thought for a moment,

_Oh, My Lord. At last._

But the thought did not last long. That the feeling of it being a miracle left him so quickly, he took as a proof that it was indeed no miracle, no sign. It was simply this: smoke from the christening font. But why?

The janitor, whom he was not on particularly good terms with, had decided to play a practical joke. The water in the font had started to boil.

The problem was that he was in the middle of a sermon and could not spend a long time thinking about these questions. So Beck Ardelius did what most people do in these situations. He carried on as if nothing had happened and hoped the problem would resolve itself on its own. He cleared his throat and tried to remember what he had just said.

_The works of the Lord. Something about seeking strength in the works of the Lord. One example._

He glanced down at the notes on his paper. He had written: Barefoot.

Barefoot? What did I mean by that? That the people of Israel walked barefoot or that Jesus… wandered for a long time…

He looked up and saw that the smoke had thickened, formed a pillar that rose up from the font to the ceiling. What was the last thing he had said? Yes, now he remembered. The words were still hanging in the air.

“And the strength for this we can take from the works of the Lord."

That was an acceptable conclusion. Not great, not what he had been planning, but acceptable. He gave the congregation a somewhat bewildered smile and nodded to Bridget, who led the choir.

The choir, eight people, stood up as one and walked up to the podium. When they turned to the congregation he could tell by their expressions that they also saw the smoke. Blessed be thy Lord. It had occurred to him that perhaps it was only he who could see it.

Bridget looked at him for guidance and he made a gesture with his hand: go on, get started.

The choir started to sing.

“Lead me, God, lead me into righteousness. Let mine eyes behold Thy path.”

One of old Wesley's beautiful compositions. Beck Ardelius wished he had been able to enjoy the beauty of the song, but the pillar of cloud was starting to worry him. Thick white smoke was billowing up out of the christening font and something inside the basin itself was burning with a blue-white flame, smoking and sputtering. A sweetish smell reached his nostrils and the members of the congregation started to turn around in order to figure out where the crackling sound was coming from.

“For only you, my Lord, offer my soul peace and security…”

One of the women in the choir started to cough. The members of the congregation turned their heads from the smoking font to Beck Ardelius in order to receive instruction from him as to how they should behave, if this was a part of the service.

More people started to cough, holding handkerchiefs or sleeves in front of their mouths, noses. A thin haze had started to form inside the church, and through this haze Beck Ardelius saw someone get up from the very last row and run out the door.

Yes, that is the only reasonable thing to do. He leaned toward the microphone.

"Well, there has been a small mishap and I think it is best if we clear the building."

Already at the word "mishap" Steven left the podium and started walking toward the exit with quick, controlled steps. He got it. It was her hopeless delinquent of a kid who had done this. Even now, as he was walking down from the podium he was trying to control himself, because he sensed that if he got hold of Ray right now he would give him a good beating.

Of course this was exactly what the young hooligan needed; it was exactly the kind of guidance he was lacking. Pillar of cloud come help me. A good spanking is what this kid sorely needs.

But Ray's mom wouldn't accept it, as things stood right now. Once they were married things would be different. Then he would, God so help him, take on the task of disciplining Ray. But first and foremost he would get ahold of him right now. Shake him up a little bit, at the very least.

Steven didn't get very far. Beck Ardelius' words from the podium had worked like a starting gun on the members of the congregation, who had only been waiting for his go-ahead in order to stampede out of the church. Halfway down the aisle Steven found himself blocked by little old ladies who were hurrying toward the exit with grim determination.

His right hand flew to his hip but he stopped it halfway, clenched it into a fist. Even if he had had his baton this would hardly have been a good time to use it.

The smoke production in the font was starting to die down but the church was now full of a thick haze that smelled of candy and chemicals. The exit doors were wide open and through the haze you could see a strong rectangle of morning light.

The congregation moved toward the light, coughing.

-

There was a single wooden chair in the kitchen, nothing more. Frank pulled it up to the sink, stood on it, and peed into the drain while he had water running out of the tap. When he was done he put the chair back. It looked strange in the otherwise empty kitchen. Like something in a museum.

_What does he keep it for?_

He looked around. Above the fridge there was a row of cabinets you could only reach by standing on the chair. He pulled it over and steadied himself by putting a hand on the refrigerator door handle. His stomach rumbled. He was hungry.

Without thinking more about it, he opened the fridge in order to see what there was. Not much. An open carton of milk, half a packet of bread. Butter and cheese. Frank put his hand out for the milk.

He stood there with the carton of milk in his hand, blinked. This didn't add up. Did he eat real food as well? He must. He took the milk carton out of the fridge and put it on the counter. In the kitchen cabinet above the counter there was almost nothing. Two plates, two glasses. He took a glass and poured milk into it.

And then it hit him. With the cold milk glass in his hand it finally hit him, with full force.

He drinks blood.

Yesterday evening, in his tangle of sleepiness and sense of detachment from the world, in the dark, everything had somehow felt possible. But now in the kitchen, where no blankets hung in the window and the blinds let in a weak morning light, with a glass of milk in his hand it seemed so beyond anything he could comprehend.

Like: If you have milk and bread in your fridge you must be a human being.

He lifted the glass to his face to take a drink, but instantly the stench had wafted into his face. It was sour. He smelled the rest that was in the carton. Yes, definitely bad. He poured it out into the sink, rinsed the glass out, and then drank some water in order to get the scent out of his mouth. Looked at the date on the carton.

_Use by 28 October._

The milk was ten days too old. Frank had a realization.

The old guy's milk. The refrigerator door was still open. The old guy's food.

Revolting. Totally revolting.

Frank slammed the door shut. What had that old guy been here for anyway? What had he and Gerard had in common? Frank shivered. He has killed him.

Gerard must have kept the old guy around in order to be able to drink from him. To use him like a living blood bank. That's what he did. But why had the old guy agreed to it? And if he had killed him, where was the body? Frank glanced up at the high kitchen cabinets. And suddenly he didn't want to be in the kitchen anymore. Didn't want to stay in the apartment at all. He walked out of the kitchen, through the hall. The closed bathroom door.

_He's in there._

He hurried into the living room, collected his bag. The Walkman was on the table. He would have to buy new headphones, that was all. When he picked up the Walkman in order to put it into his bag he saw the note. It was lying on the coffee table, at the same height as his head had been resting.

**_Hi. Hope you've slept well. I'm also going to sleep now. I'm in the bathroom. Don't try to go in there, please. I'm trusting you. I don't know what to write. I hope you can like me even though you know what I am. I like you. A lot. You're lying here on the couch right now, snoring. Please. Don't be afraid of me._ **

**_Please, please, please, don't be afraid of me._ **

**_Do you want to meet me tonight? Write so on this note if you do._ **

**_If you write ‘No’ I'll move tonight. Probably have to do that soon anyway. But if you write ‘Yes’ I'll hang around for a while longer. I don't know what I should write. I'm alone. Probably more alone than you can imagine, I think. Or perhaps you can._ **

**_Sorry I broke your music machine. Take the money if you want. I have a lot. Don't be afraid of me. There's no reason for you to be. Maybe you know that. I hope you know that. I like you so very much._ **

**_Yours, Gerard_ **

**_P.S. Feel free to stay. But if you leave make sure the door locks behind you._ **

Frank read the note several times. Then he picked up the pen next to it. He looked around the empty room, Gerard's life. The bills he had tried to give him were still lying on the table, scrunched up. He took one twenty dollar bill, put it in his pocket.

He looked for a long time at the space on the page under Gerard's name. Then he lowered the pen and wrote in letters as tall as the space.

**_YES._ **

He put the pen down, got up, and slipped the Walkman into his bag. He turned around one last time and looked at the by-now upside-down letters.

**_YES._ **

Then he shook his head, dug the twenty dollar bill out of his pocket, and put it back on the table. When he was out in the stairwell he checked that the door had locked securely behind him. He pulled on it several times.

-

 

**Sunday 8 November (evening)**

Frank saw it when he came home after having spent the afternoon walking around the city. When he got off the subway Ray was getting on. Ray looked jumpy and wound up and said he had done something "fucking hilarious" but didn't have time to say anything more before the doors closed. At home there was a note on the kitchen table; his mom was going to dinner with the choir tonight. There was food in the refrigerator, the advertising flyers had been delivered, hugs and kisses.

The evening paper was on the kitchen sofa. Frank looked at the sheep on the front page and read everything about the death they had written. Then he did something he had been lagging behind on: cut out and saved the articles about the Ritual Killer from the paper over the last few days. He took the pile of newspapers out from the cleaning closet, his scrapbook, scissors, paste, and got to work.

-

Dominic sighed when his four year old brother- _half_ little brother- Kyle came up to him with a present. A wooden block he had wrapped with the first page of the evening paper. He held it out to him, waiting expectantly. Kyle’s eyes glimmered with the want to give, but Dominic didn’t feel like partaking. He shooed him out of his room, said he wasn't in the mood. Locked the door. Picked up the photo album again, looking at the pictures of Dad. His real dad, who was not Kyle’s dad.

A little later he heard his step father yelling at Kyle because he had ruined the paper. Dominic then unwrapped the present, turned the block in his fingers as he studies the close up of the sheep. He chuckled, the skin pulled taut around his ear. He stored the photo album in his gym bag. It would be safest to keep it and school. And from there, his thoughts turned to what the hell he should do with Frank.

-

Frank had not read Saturday's paper. Now it was spread out in front of him on the kitchen table. He had had it turned to the same page for a while and read the caption to the picture over and over again. The picture he couldn't let go of.

The text was about the man who had been found frozen into the ice down by Mercy hospital. How he had been found, how the recovery work had been undertaken. There was a small picture of Mr. Avila as he stood pointing out over the water, toward the hole in the ice. In the quote from Mr. Avila, the reporter had smoothed out his linguistic eccentricities.

All of this was interesting enough and worth cutting out to save, but that wasn't what he was staring at, what he couldn't tear himself from.

It was the picture of the shirt.

Stuffed inside the man's jacket there had been a child-sized bloodstained sweater, and it was reproduced here, laid out against a neutral background. Frank recognized the sweater immediately.

_Aren't you cold?_

The text stated that the dead man, Jackson Bea, was last seen alive Saturday the twenty-fourth of October. Two weeks ago. Frank remembered that evening. When Gerard had solved the cube. He had stroked his cheek and he had walked out of the courtyard. That night Gerard and the old guy had argued and the old guy had left.

Was that the night that Gerard had done it?

Yes, probably. The next day he had looked a lot healthier.

He looked at the photograph. It was in black and white but the caption said the sweater was blue. The reporter speculated that the murderer might have yet another young victim on his conscience.

_Hang on a minute._

The Jersey murderer. In the article it said the police now had strong indications that the man in the ice had been killed by the so-called Ritual Killer, who had been captured at the swimming pool about a week earlier, and who had kicked the bucket.

Was it the old guy? But the kid in the forest… Why?

A lightbulb went on in his head. Understood everything. All of these articles he had cut out and saved, radio, TV, all the talk, the fear.

 _Gerard_.

Frank didn't know what to do. What he should do. So he went to the fridge and took out the piece of lasagna his mom had saved for him. Ate it cold while he kept looking at the articles. When he was done eating he heard a tap on the wall. Closed his eyes so he could hear better. He knew the code by heart at this point.

..  .- --  --. --- .. -. --.  --- ..- -

I  A M  G O I N G  O U T

He quickly got up from the table, walked into his room, lay belly-down on his bed, and tapped out an answer.

-.-. --- -- .  --- …- . .-.

C O M E  O V E R

A pause.

-.-- --- ..- .-.  -- --- --

Y O U R  M O M

Frank tapped a reply.

.- .-- .- -.--  

A W A Y

His mom wouldn't be back until around ten. They still had about three hours. When Frank had tapped the last message he rested his head on the pillow. For a moment he concentrated on formulating words that he had forgotten.

His top… in the paper.

He jumped, was about to get up in order to sweep up all the papers that lay out. Gerard would see them and know that he knew.

Then he leaned his head back against the pillow, decided he didn't care.

A low whistle outside the window. He got up out of bed, walked forward, and leaned against the windowsill. He stood there below with his face turned up to the light. He was wearing the checkered shirt that was too big for him.

He made a gesture with his finger: _Go to the door_.

-

“Don't tell him it was me, OK?"

Ray's mom made a face, blew smoke out of the corner of her mouth in the direction of the half-open kitchen window, didn't reply.

Ray snorted. "Why do you smoke like that, out the window?"

The ash pillar of her cigarette was so long it started to bend. Ray pointed to it, made a _duht-duht_ movement with his finger like he was flicking the ash off. She ignored him.

"Because Steven doesn't like it, alright? The smell of smoke."

Ray leaned back in his kitchen chair, looked at the ash, and wondered what it actually consisted of that allowed it to get so long without breaking off, waved his hand in front of her face.

"I don't like the smell of smoke either. Didn't like it at all when I was little. But that didn't make you crack the window like this. Oh, _see_? There it goes."

The pillar of ash broke off and landed on Ray's mom's thigh. She brushed it off and a gray streak was left on her pants. She raised the hand holding the cigarette.

"I did _so_. Most of the time, at least. There may have been times when I had people over or something, when I didn't. And who the hell are you to sit here lecturing me about not liking smoke."

Ray grinned. "But you have to admit it was a little funny."

"No, it was not. Think about if people had panicked. If people had…” She sighed and shook her head. “And what about that basin? The ..."

"Christening font."

" _Yes_ , the christening font. The minister was in despair over it, there was like a black crust over the whole thing. Steven had to—"

"Steven, Steven, _Steven_."

"Yes, Steven. He didn't say it was you. He said it to me, that it was hard for him, with his faith to stand there lying to the minister's face but that he did. To protect you."

"But you get it, don't you?"

"Get what?"

"That he's really protecting himself."

"He is _not_ , I—"

"Think about it."

Ray's mom took a last long drag of her cigarette, put it out in the ashtray, and immediately lit another.

"It was an antique. Now they have to send it off to be restored."

"And it was Steven's stepson who did it. How would that look?"

"You are not his stepson."

"No, but you know. If I said to Steven that I was going to go see the minister and tell him that it was me, and that my name is Ray and Steven is my... sort-of stepfather. Don't think he would like it."

"You should talk to him yourself."

"No, not today anyway."

"You don't dare."

"You sound like a little kid."

"And you're behaving like one."

"But it was a little funny, wasn't it?"

"No, Ray. It wasn't."

Ray sighed. He knew his mom would get pissed, but he had still thought she might be able to see something comical in it. But she was on Steven's side now. Had to come to terms with it. So the problem, the real problem, was finding somewhere to live. When they got married, that is. For now he could crash in the basement those evenings when Steven came over. At eight he was going to finish his shift and come straight out here. And Ray had no intention of listening to some damn moralizing lecture from that guy. Not on his life.

So Ray went to his room and got his blanket and pillow from his bed while Ray's mom still sat there smoking, looking out of the kitchen window. When he was ready he stood in the kitchen door with his pillow under one arm, the rolled up blanket under the other.

"Okay, I'm going now. I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell him where I am."

Ray's mom turned to him. She had tears in her eyes. Smiled a little.

"You look like when… when you would come and ask… "

The words caught in her throat. Ray stood still. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and looked at him with clear eyes, spoke quietly. "Ray. What should I do?"

"I don't know."

"Should I?..."

"No, not for my sake. Things are what they are."

She nodded. Ray felt that he was also going to get really sad, that he should go now before things went wrong.

"And you won't tell, that—"

"No, no. I won't."

"Good. Thanks."

She got up and went over to Ray. Hugged him. She smelled strongly of cigarettes. If Ray's arms had been free he would have hugged her back. But he didn't, so he just put his head on her shoulder and they stood like that for a while.

Then Ray left.

_Don't trust her. Steven can start going off on some damn thing or other and…_

In the basement he threw the blanket and pillow on the couch. Put in a cigarette and lay down to think things over.

_It would be best if he got shot._

But Steven probably wasn't the kind of guy who did. Was more like the one who would plant a bull's-eye right in the killer's forehead. Get a box of chocolates from his police friends. The hero. Would turn up here later looking for Ray. Maybe.

He fished out his key, walked out in the corridor and unlocked the shelter, took the chain in with him. With his lighter as a lamp he made his way through the short corridor with the two storage units on either side. In the storage units there were dry goods, cans of food, old games, a camp stove, and other things to make it through a siege.

He opened a door, threw in the chain. Okay, he had an emergency exit. Before he left the shelter he took down the shooting trophy and weighed it in his hand. At least two kilos. Maybe he could sell it? The value of the metal alone. They could melt it down.

He studied the pistol shooter's face. Didn't he kind of look like Steven? In that case melting it down was the right option. Cremation. Definitely. He laughed.

The absolutely best thing would be to melt everything down except the head and then give it back to Steven. A solid pool of metal with only that little head sticking up. Was probably too hard to arrange. Unfortunately.

He put the trophy back in its place, walked out, and closed the door without turning the wheels of the lock. Now he would be able to slip in here if he had to. Which he didn't really think would happen.

But just in case.

-

The police held a press conference Sunday evening.

They had chosen a conference room at the police station with room for forty people, but it had turned out to be too small. A number of reporters from big city newspapers and television stations turned up. The fact that the man had died in such a gruesome way made the news more sensational, and a New York journalist gave the best analysis of why the whole thing had attracted such attention.

"It's a search for the archetypal Monster. This man's appearance, what he's done. He is The Monster, the evil at the heart of all fairy tales. And every time we catch it, we like to pretend it's over for good."

Already, a quarter of an hour before the appointed time, the air in the poorly ventilated room was warm and humid, and the only ones who did not complain were the Italian TV team who said they were used to worse conditions.

They moved the event to a larger room and at exactly eight o'clock, the New Jersey district's chief of police came in, flanked by the commissioner who was spearheading the investigation and who had questioned the Ritual Killer in the hospital, as well as the patrol leader who had caught him in the swimming pool beforehand.

They were not afraid of being torn limb from limb by the reporters, because they had decided to throw them a bone.

They had a photograph of the man.

-

The investigation of the watch the man was wearing had finally yielded results. On Saturday, a watchmaker from Ohio had taken the time to go through his index file of outdated proof-of-insurance forms and had come across the number the police had asked him and other watchmakers to try to locate.

He called the police and gave them the name, address, and phone number of the man who was registered as the buyer. The New Jersey police entered the man's name into their register and asked Ohio the police to go to the address to see what they could find.

There was some excitement at the station when it turned out that the man had been prosecuted for grand larceny, seven years earlier. Had spent three years locked up in an institution, deemed mentally ill. Was thereafter determined to be recovered and subsequently released.

But the Ohio police found the man at home, in good health.

Yes, he had had a watch like that. No, he couldn't remember what had happened to it. It took a couple of hours of interrogation at the station in Ohio, reminders that there were conditions under which a psychiatric certificate of good health could be subject to reevaluation, before the man recalled who he had sold the watch to.

Michael Way. They had met somewhere and done something, he couldn't remember what. He had sold him the watch, at any rate, but he had no address and could only give a vague description of him, and could he please be allowed to go home now?

There was nothing on Michael Way in the police records. There were twenty-four Michael Ways in the tri-state area. About half of them could immediately be disregarded because of age. The police started to call around. The search was simplified by the fact that the ability to speak immediately disqualified someone as a viable candidate.

Toward nine o'clock in the evening they were able to narrow the list to a single person. One Michael Way who had been a teacher at the high school and who had left Ohio after his house burned down under unclear circumstances.

They called the principal of the high school. They had the principal go to the school on a Saturday evening and produce a photo of Michael Way from the school archives, taken for the school catalogue in 1976.

An Ohio police officer, who needed to be in Michigan on Sunday anyway, faxed over a copy and then started driving up with the original late Saturday night. It reached the New Jersey headquarters at one o'clock Sunday morning, that is to say, about a half hour after the man in question had fallen from his hospital window and been declared dead.

Sunday morning was devoted to verifying through dental and medical records from Ohio that the man in the snapshot was the same man who, until the preceding evening, had been bound to his hospital bed. And it was him.

Sunday afternoon there was a meeting at the station. They had counted on slowly being able to unravel what the dead man had done since leaving Ohio, see if his deeds were part of a larger context, if he had left more victims strewn in his wake.

-

 

“Hey there."

"Hi."

Frank went in before him, straight to the living room in order to get the record he wanted. Flipped through his mom's thin record collection and found it. The Vikings. The whole group was assembled in something that looked like the skeleton of a Viking ship, misplaced in their shiny costumes.

Gerard didn't come in. With the record in his hand he went back into the hall. He was still standing outside the front door.

"Frank, you have to invite me in."

"But the window. You’ve already-"

"This is a new entrance."

"Got it. Okay, you can."

Frank stopped himself, licked his lips. Looked at the picture on the album cover. The picture had been taken in the dark, with a flash, and the Vikings glowed like a group of saints about to walk onto land. He stepped toward Gerard, showed him the album.

"Check it out, they look like they're in the belly of a whale or something."

"Frank..."

"Yes?"

Gerard stood still, with his arms hanging by his side, and looked at Frank. He smiled, went up to the door, waved his hand in the air between the door frame and the door jamb, in front of Gerard's face.

"What? Is there something here or what?"

"Don't start."

"But seriously. What happens if I don't do it?"

"Don't. Start." Gerard gave a thin smile. "You want to _see_? What happens? Do you? Is that what you want?"

Gerard said it in a way that was clearly intended for Frank to say no. The promise of something terrible.

But Frank swallowed. "Yes. I do. Show me."

"You wrote in the note."

"Yeah, I know. But let's see. What happens?"

Gerard pinched his lips together, thought for a second. And then took a step forward, over the threshold. Frank tensed his whole body, waiting for a blue flash, or for the door to swing forward through Gerard and slam shut or something like that. But nothing happened. Gerard went into the hallway, closed the door behind him. Frank shrugged his shoulders.

"Is that all?"

"Not exactly."

Gerard stood still, in the same way as he had outside the door, his arms along his sides and his eyes glued to Frank's. Frank shook his head.

"What? There's nothing…"

He stopped when he saw a tear come out of the corner of one of Gerard's eyes; no, one in each eye. But it wasn't a tear, since it was dark. The skin in Gerard's face started to flush, became pink, red, wine-red, and his hands tightened into fists as the pores in his face opened and tiny pearls of blood started to appear in dots all over his face and throat.

Gerard's lips twisted in pain and a drop of blood ran out of the corner of his mouth, joined with the pearls emerging on his chin and, growing larger, trickled down to join the drops on his throat. Frank's arms became limp; he let them fall and the record fell out of its sleeve, bounced once with its edge against the floor, then fell flat onto the hall rug. His gaze went to Gerard's hands. The backs of his hands were damp with a thin covering of blood and more was coming out.

Again he looked Gerard in the eyes, didn't find him, couldn’t find him. His eyes looked like they had sunk into their sockets, were filled with blood flowing out, running along the bridge of his nose over his lips into his mouth, where more blood was coming out. Two streams running out of the corners of his mouth, down over his throat, disappearing under the collar of his T-shirt where dark spots were starting to appear.

Gerard was bleeding out of all the pores in his body.

Frank caught his breath, screamed. "You can come in! You can come in! You can come in! You’re welcome here, you’re allowed to be here!"

Gerard relaxed. His clenched fists loosened. The grimace of pain disappeared. Frank thought for a moment that even the blood would somehow dissolve, that it would all sort of not have happened once he was invited in.

But no. The blood stopped running, but Gerard's face and hands were still dark red, and while the two of them were standing in front of each other without saying anything, the blood started to coagulate, form darker stripes and lumps in the places it had flowed, and Frank picked up a faint hospital smell.

"Sorry, I- I didn't think..." He picked the record up off the floor, put it back in its sleeve. Did not dare to look at Gerard.

"It's alright. I was the one who wanted to do it. But I think I should probably have a shower. Do you have a plastic bag?"

"Plastic bag?"

"Yes. For the clothes."

Frank nodded, went out into the kitchen and dug a plastic bag with the walmart logo on it from the cabinet down below the sink. He walked into the living room, put the record on the coffee table, and stopped, the bag crinkling in his hand.

_If I hadn't said anything. If I had let him bleed._

He scrunched the bag into a ball, let go of it, and the bag jumped out of his hand, fell to the floor. He picked it up, threw it into the air, caught it. The shower was turned on in the bathroom.

It's all true. He is…

While he walked toward the bathroom he smoothed out the bag. Shop and compare. He heard splashing from behind the closed door. The lock was turned. He knocked gently.

"Gerard…? "

"Yes. Come in."

"No, it's just- the bag."

"I can't hear what you're saying. Come in."

"No."

"Frank, I-"

"I'm leaving the bag here for you!"

He laid the bag outside the door and fled to the living room. Took the record out of its sleeve, put it on the playing table, turned the record player on, and moved the needle to the third track, his favorite.

A pretty long intro, and then the singer's soft voice began rolling out of the speakers.

_The girl puts flowers in her hair as she wanders through the field. She will be nineteen this year and she smiled to herself as she walks._

Gerard came into the living room. He had fastened a towel around his waist. In his hand he had the plastic bag with his clothes. His face was clean now and his wet hair fell in tendrils over his cheeks, ears. Frank folded his arms across his chest where he stood next to the record player, nodding to him.

_Why are you smiling, the boy asks then when they meet by chance at the gate I'm thinking of the one who will be mine says the girl with eyes so blue The one that I love so._

"Frank?"

"Yes?" He lowered the volume, inclined his head toward the record player. "It's stupid, isn't it?"

Gerard shook his head. "No, this is great. This I really like."

"You do?"

"Yes. But Frank… " Gerard looked like he was going to say more, but only added an "oh well".

A short instrumental section and then the song was over. A mild crackling from the speakers, as the needle moved toward the next song, while Frank looked at Gerard.

His upper body was slender, straight, and without much in the way of contours. Only the ribs stood out clearly in the sharp overhead light. His thin arms and legs appeared unnaturally long the way they grew out of his body. A young sapling covered with human skin. His fair skin was so light where clothes would usually cover, it seemed to glow.

Frank pulled his hand through his hair, let it rest cupped against his neck. He didn’t know what to say, felt a swelling in the base of his neck.

Without looking at Gerard, Frank went past him to the bathroom to check that there were no traces. Warm steam hung in the air; the mirror was misted over. The bathtub was as white as before, just a faint yellow streak of old dirt near the edge that never went away. The sink, clean. As if it hadn't happened.

Gerard had simply gone into the bathroom for appearance's sake, dropped the illusion. But, no. The soap. He lifted it up. The soap was faintly streaked with pink and in the little porcelain indentation under it, in the water that collected there, was a clot. He ran water out of the tap and splashed some on it so it was flushed down the drain. He also rinsed off the soap and washed out the indentation. Then he took his bathrobe from the hook, went back into the living room, and held it out to Gerard, who was still standing on the floor, looking around.

"Thanks. When will your mother be back?"

"In a couple of hours." Frank held up the bag with his clothes. "Should I throw these away?"

Gerard pulled on the bathrobe, tied the belt around the middle.

"No. I'll get it later." He nudged Frank's shoulder.

Gerard fiddled with the belt of the bathrobe, then walked over to the record player and looked at the turning record. Turned around, looked around the room. "You know, it's been a long time since I was ... just hanging out in someone's home like this. I don't really know... What should I do?"

"I don't know."

Gerard let his shoulders fall, pushed his hands into the pockets of the bathrobe, and watched the record's dark hole in the middle as if he were hypnotized. Opened his mouth as if to say something, closed it again. Took his right hand out of the pocket, stretched it out toward the record, and pushed his finger on it so it came to a stop.

"Watch it. It can get damaged." Frank said.

“Sorry.”

Gerard quickly pulled his hand back and the record sped up, kept turning. Frank saw that his finger had left a damp imprint behind that could be seen every time the record spun through the strip of light from the overhead lamp. Gerard put his hand back in the pocket, watching the record as if he were trying to listen to the music by studying the tracks.

"This sounds a bit, um, but… " The corners of Gerard's mouth twitched. "I haven't had a normal friendship with anyone in two hundred years." He looked at Frank with a sorry-I'm-saying-such-silly-things smile. Frank widened his eyes.

"Are you really that old?"

"Yes. No. I was born about two hundred and twenty years ago, but half the time I've slept."

"That's normal, I do that too. Or at least eight hours. What does that make… one third of the time."

"Yes. But... when I say sleep I mean that there are months at a time when I don't get up at all. And then a few months when I live. But then I rest during the daytime."

"Is that how it works?"

"I don't know. That's how it is with me at any rate. And then when I wake up I'm…  little again. And weak. That's when I need help. That's maybe why I've been able to survive. Because I'm small. And people want to help me. But... for very different reasons."

A shadow crossed Gerard's cheek as he clenched his teeth, pushed his hands down into the pockets of the robe, found something, drew it up. A shiny, thin strip of paper. Something Frank's mom had left there; she sometimes used Frank's bathrobe. Gerard gently laid the strip of paper back in the pocket as if it was something valuable.

"Do you sleep in a coffin?"

Gerard laughed, shook his head. "No, no, I. .."

"But you kill people!" Frank couldn't keep it in any longer. He didn't mean to, but it came out like an accusation when he said it.  Gerard looked back at him with an expression that looked like surprise, as if Frank had forcefully pointed out that he had five fingers on each hand or some such equally self-evident fact.

"Yes. I kill people. Unfortunately."

"So why do you?"

"If you have a better idea I'd like to hear it." A flash of anger from Gerard's eyes.

"I mean, blood… there has to be some sort of better… way to… "

"There isn't."

"Why not?"

Gerard snorted, his eyes narrowed. "Because I am like you."

"What do you mean like me? I..."

Gerard thrust his hand through the air as if he was holding a knife. "What are you looking at, idiot? Want to die, or something?" Stabbed the air with his empty hand. "That's what happens if you look at me."

"What are you saying?" Frank rubbed his lips together, dampening them.

"It's not me that's saying it. It's you. That was the first thing I heard you say. Down on the playground."

Frank remembered. The tree. The knife. How he had held up the blade of the knife like a mirror, seen Gerard for the first time. _Do you have a reflection? The first time I saw you was in a mirror._

"I. . . don't kill people."

"No, but you would like to. If you could. And you would really do it if you had to."

"Because I hate someone. That's a very big- "

"Difference. Is it?"

"Yes?"

"If you got away with it. If it just happened. If you could wish someone dead and they died. Wouldn't you do it then? Sure you would. And that would be simply for your own enjoyment. Your revenge. I do it because I have to. There is no other way."

"But it's only because they hurt me, because they tease me, because I..."

"Because you want to live. Just like me." Gerard held out his arms, laid them against Frank's cheeks, brought his face closer. "Be me a little." And kissed him.

Gerard caught him when he fell backward from Gerard's lips. Held him in his arms. Frank fumbled for whatever there was to grasp, the body in front of him, and squeezed it hard, looked unseeing around the room. Stay still. Frank opened his eyes. He was in the living room in his and his mom's apartment. And the person in his arms was Gerard. A boy. My friend. Frank needed to sit down, his head was spinning. Gerard let him go and he sat down on the floor.

Gerard knelt on the floor in front of him, hands pressed against his stomach. "Sorry."

"What happened to your mom?"

"I don't know."

Frank imagined that Gerard was a copy of his mother. Thinner, smoother, younger but a copy. In twenty years Gerard would probably look just like the woman he was imagining behind his eyelids. Just a bit more masculine.

Except that he won't. He's going to look exactly like he looks now.

Frank sighed, exhausted, leaned back in the couch. Too much. An incipient headache groped along his temples, found foothold, pressed in. Too much. Gerard stood up.

"I'll go now."

Frank leaned his head in his hand, nodded. Didn't have the energy to protest, think about what he should do. Gerard crouched down next to the plastic bag, untied it, and started to pull out his clothes.

"You can take something of mine." Frank stopped him.

"It's fine."

Gerard took out the checkered shirt. Dark squares against the blue. Frank sat up. The headache whirled against his temples.

"Don't be silly, you can-"

"It's okay."

Gerard started to put on the bloodstained shirt and Frank sighed. "You're gross, don't you get it?

You do a lot of gross things."

Gerard turned to him with the shirt in his hands. "Do you think so?"

"Yeah."

Gerard put the shirt back in the bag.

"What should I take then?"

"Something from the closet. Whatever you like."

Gerard nodded, went into Frank's room where the closets were while Frank let himself slide sideways into the couch and pressed his hands against his temples to prevent them from cracking.

_Mom, Gerard's mom, my mom. Gerard, me. Two hundred years. Gerard's dad. Gerard's dad? The old man._

Gerard came back into the living room. Frank got ready to say what he was planning to say but stopped himself when he saw that Gerard was wearing a dress. A faded yellow summer dress with small white dots. One of his mother's dresses. Gerard stroked his hand over it.

"Is this alright? I took the one that looked the most worn."

"But it's…"

"I'll bring it back later." Gerard went up to him, crouched down, and took his hand.

"Frank? I'm sorry that... I don't know what I should . . ."

Frank waved with his other hand to get him to stop. "You know that that old guy, that he's died, don't you?"

"What old guy?"

"The old guy who- the one you said was your dad. The one who lived with you."

"What about him?"

Frank shut his eyes. Blue lightning flashed inside his eyelids. The chain of events he had reconstructed from the papers flashed past and he got angry, loosening his hand from Gerard's and making it into a fist, hitting against his own throbbing head. He spoke with his eyes still shut. "Cut it out. Just cut it out. I know all of it, alright. Quit pretending. Quit lying, I'm so damn tired of that."

Gerard didn't say anything. Frank pinched his eyes shut, breathed in and out.

"The old man has died. Now you know."

A pause. Then Gerard's voice, above Frank's head.

“I know."

Frank opened his eyes. Gerard had stood up, stood there with large, wet eyes. The dress was too big, hung like a sack over his thin shoulders, and he looked like a kid who had borrowed his mom's clothes without permission and was now awaiting his punishment.

"Frank," said Gerard. "I’m afraid." The dress. The words. Frank snorted, couldn't help saying it.

"You sound like my mom."

-

 

**Sunday, November 8 (Evening)**

Ray's mom came into the kitchen, saw Steven bent over the counter with closed eyes. She took a few steps towards him, quiet and steady. He didn’t seem to notice her presence, or at least pretended not to, didn’t move.

"How are you doing?"

Steven shook his head. "It's nothing."

"Are you sad?"

"No." He opened his eyes, pointed at the teapot. "That's a terrible teapot."

"It is?"

"Yes, it… spills when you try to pour the tea."

"I've never noticed."

"Well, it does."

"There's nothing wrong with it."

Steven pinched his lips together, stretched out his scalded hand towards her with a gesture of Peace. Shalom. Be quiet. "Right now I feel such an intense desire to hit you. So please, don't say any more."

She took half a step back. Something in her had been prepared for this. She had not admitted this insight into her conscious mind, but had still sensed that behind his pious facade. Steven stored some kind of rage.

She crossed her arms, breathed in and out a few times, while Steven stood still, staring at the teacup with the lid in it. Then she said: "Is that what you do?"

"What?"

"Hit.” She pronounced every letter. “When something goes wrong."

"Have I hit you?"

"No, but you said-"

"I _said_. And you listened. And now it's alright."

"And if I hadn't listened?"

Steven looked completely calm again and she relaxed, lowered her arms. He took both her hands in his, kissed the backs of them lightly.

"We have to listen to each other."

The tea was poured out and they drank it in the living room. Steven made a mental note to buy her a new teapot. She did her best to engage him in conversation on other topics but, finally, came the unavoidable question.

"Where's Ray?"

"I… don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Well, at a friend's house."

"Hm. When is he coming home?" He probed.

"I think he was supposed to spend the night. Over there."

"There?"

"Yes, at..." In her head she went through the names of Ray's friends that she knew. Didn't want to tell Steven that Ray was gone for the night without knowing where. Steven took this thing about a parent's responsibility very seriously. "At Brian's."

"Brian.” He held the name in his mouth like he had caught it in the air. “Is that his best friend?"

"Yes, I guess so."

"What’s his full name? Brian what?"

"Moore. Why? Is that someone you know?"

"No, I was just thinking." Steven took his spoon, hit it lightly against the teacup. A delicate ringing sound. He nodded. "Okay. I think we're going to have to call this Brian and ask Ray to come home for a while. So I can talk to him a little."

"I don't have the number."

"No, but _Moore_. You know where he lives, don't you? All you have to do is look it up in the telephone directory." Steven got up out of the couch. She bit her lower lip, felt how she was constructing a labyrinth that it was getting harder and harder to get out of. He got the local part of the telephone book and stopped in the middle of the living room, flipping through it and mumbling. “Moore, Moore… Hm. Which street does he live on?"

"Um… Bloomfield."

"Bloomfield…” He ran his finger along the lines. “No Moore there. But there is one here on Ivy. Could it be him?" When Ray's mom didn't answer, Steven put his finger in the phone book. "Think I'll give him a try at any rate. It's Brian, right?"

"Steven… "

"Yeah?"

"I promised him not to tell."

"What do you mean?."

"Ray. I said I wouldn't tell you. Where he is."

"So he’s not at Brian’s?"

"No." She said, quickly closing her mouth.

"Where is he then?"

"I promised."

Steven put the telephone book on the coffee table, went and sat down next to her on the couch. She took a sip of tea, held the teacup in front of her face as if to hide behind it while Steven waited for her. When she put the cup down on the saucer she saw that her hands were shaking. Steven put his hand on her knee.

"Honey, you have to understand that-"

"I promised."

"I only want to _talk_ to him. Forgive me for saying this, honey, but I think it is exactly this kind of inability to deal with a situation as it arises that is the reason… well, that they happen in the first place. In my experience, the faster young people have someone respond to their actions, the greater the chance that, uh… take a heroin addict, for example. If someone takes action when he is only doing, say, hash-"

"Ray doesn't do things like that."

"Are you completely sure of that?"

Silence fell. She knew that for each second that went by, her ‘yes’ in response to Steven's question decreased in value. Now she had already answered ‘no’ without saying the word. And Ray did act strange sometimes. When he came home. Something about his eyes. She couldn’t help but worry about ‘what if?’.

Steven leaned back in the couch, knew the battle was won. Now he was only waiting for her conditions. Her eyes were searching for something on the table.

"What is it?"

"My cigarettes, have you seen them?"

"In the kitchen. Honey?"

"You can't go to him now."

"No. You can decide. If you think-"

"Tomorrow morning. Before he goes to school. Promise me that you won't go to him now."

"Promise.” He sighed. “So, what kind of mysterious place is he holed up in anyway?"

She mom told him.

Then she went out into the kitchen and smoked a cigarette, blew the smoke out through the open window. Smoked one more, cared less about where the smoke went. When Steven came out into the kitchen, demonstratively waved away the smoke with his hand, and asked where the cellar key was, she said she had forgotten for the moment but it would probably come back to her tomorrow morning.

If he was nice.

-

When Gerard had gone, Frank sat down at the kitchen table again looking through the displayed newspaper articles. The headache was starting to lessen now. Gerard had explained that the old man had become infected. And worse. The infection was the only thing in him that was alive. His brain was dead, and the infection was controlling and directing him. That’s why Gerard had to let him fall from the window.

Gerard had told him, begged him not to be afraid. Michael had offered, wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway. Frank wasn’t upset by it to his own surprise. The only thing that ate at him was that Gerard would leave this place tomorrow as soon as it got dark, and Frank had of course asked why not just leave tonight?

_“Because… I can't.”_

_“Why not? I can help you.”_

_“Frank, I can't. I'm too weak.”_

_“How is that possible? You've just… ”_

_“I just am.”_

And Frank had realized that _he_ was the reason that Gerard was weak. All the blood that had run out in the hall. The old guys death had been for nothing now. And then the memory of the clothes flew in front of Frank’s thoughts.

Frank got up so violently the chair tipped over backward and fell to the floor.

The bag with Gerard's bloodied clothes was still sitting in front of the couch, the shirt half hanging out. He pressed it deeper into the bag. The sleeve was like a sponge when he pressed it down, tied the bag. He stopped, looked at the hand that had pressed the shirt down.

The cut he had made in his palm had a scab that had broken up a little, revealing the wound underneath.

_The blood… he didn't want to mix it. Am I infected now?_

His legs carried him mechanically to the front door with the bag in his hand, listening for sounds outside. He didn't hear anyone and he ran up the stairs to the garbage chute, opened it. He pushed the bag in through the opening, held it fast for a moment, dangling in the dark.

A cold breeze whooshed through the chute, chilling his hand where he held it outstretched, squeezed around the plastic knot of the bag. The bag shone white against the black, slightly craggy walls of the duct. If he let go, the bag would not be sucked up. It would fall down. Gravity would pull it down. Into the big garbage sack.

In a few days the garbage truck would come and collect the sack. It came early in the morning. The orange, blinking lights would flash onto Frank's ceiling at about the same time as he generally woke up and he would lie there in his bed and listen to the rumbling, masticating crunch as the garbage was crushed. Maybe he would get up and watch the men in their overalls who tossed the big bags with habitual ease, pressed the button. The jaws of the garbage truck closing and the men who then hopped into the truck and drove the short distance to the next building.

And it always gave him such a feeling of warmth. That he was safe in his room. That things worked. Maybe there was also a longing. For those men, for the truck. To be allowed to sit in that dimly-lit coach, drive away.

_Let go. I have to let go._

The hand was convulsively clenched around the bag. His arm was aching from having been held outstretched so long. The back of his hand was numb from the cold air. He let go.

There was a hissing sound as the bag slipped along the walls, a half second of silence as it fell freely, and then a thud when it landed in the sack below. He looked at his hand again. The hand that helped. The hand that…

_I'll kill someone. I'll go in and get the knife and then I'll go out and kill someone. Dominic. I'll slit his throat and gather up his blood and then I'll bring it home for Gerard because what does it matter now that I'm infected and soon I will need it myself._

His legs wanted to crumple up under him and he had to lean on the edge of the garbage chute not to fall over. He had thought it. For real. This wasn't like the game with the tree. He had, for a moment, really thought about doing it.

Warm. He was warm, like he had a fever. His body ached and he wanted to go lie down. Now. He forced his legs to move back down the stairs while he steadied himself with one hand-

the uninfected one on the railing.

I _'m infected. I'm going to become a vampire._

He managed to let himself back into the apartment, went into his room, lay down on his bed, and stared at the wallpaper. The forest. Quickly one of his figures appeared, looked him in the eyes. The little gnome. He stroked his finger over it while a completely ridiculous little thought appeared.

_Tomorrow I have to go to school._

And there was a worksheet he hadn't filled out yet. Africa. He should get up now, sit down at his desk, light the lamp, and start to look up places in the geography book. Find meaningless names and write them down on the blank lines. That was what he ought to do. He softly stroked the gnome's little cap. Then he tapped on the wall.

\--. . .-. .- .-. -..

G E R A R D

No answer. Was probably out-

_doing what we do._

He pulled the covers over his head. A fever-like chill coursed through his body. He tried to imagine it. How it would be. To live forever. Feared, hated. No. Gerard wouldn't hate him. If they were together. He tried to imagine it; he spun out a fantasy about it. After a while the front door was unlocked. His mom was home.

-

Pillows of fat.

Ray stared blankly at the picture in front of him. The girl was pressing her breasts together with her hands so they stood out like two balloons, had pursed her mouth into a pout. It looked sick. He had thought he was going to jack off, but there must be something wrong with his brain, because he thought the girl looked like a freak.

He folded the magazine up with unnatural slowness, tucked it back in under the sofa cushions. Every little movement directed by conscious thought. Wasted. He was utterly wasted with glue fumes. And that was good. No world. Only the room he was in, and outside that was a billowing desert.

_Steven._

He tried to think about Steven. Couldn't. Didn't get ahold of him. Only saw that cardboard cutout of the policeman up at the post office. Lifesize. To scare off any would-be robbers.

Should we rob the post office?

Man, you must be crazy! Can't you see the cardboard policeman is there?

Ray giggled when the cardboard policeman's face took on Steven's features. Assigned as punishment. To guard the post office. There was something written on the cutout as well, what was it?

Crime doesn't pay. No. The police are watching you. No. What the hell was it? Watch out! I'm a champion pistol-shooter!

Ray laughed. Laughed more. Laughed until he shook and thought the naked bulb in the ceiling was swinging to and fro in time with his laughter. Giggled at it. Watch out! The cardboard policeman! With his cardboard gun! And his cardboard head!

There was a knock inside his head. Someone wanted to come into the post office. The cardboard policeman pricks up his ears. There are two hundred cardboards at the post office. Undo the safety. Bang-bang.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Bang.

_Steven… Mom… Shit._

Ray stiffened. Tried to think. Couldn't. Just a ragged cloud in his head. Then he calmed down. Maybe it was Brian or Leo. It could be Steven. And he was made of cardboard. Penis-dummy, cardboard-mummy.

Ray cleared his throat, said thickly: "Who is it?"

“It’s me.”

He recognized the voice, couldn't place it. Not Steven, at any rate. Not paper-Papa. Barba-papa. _Stop it_ , he told his ridiculously annoying, distracting thoughts.

"Who are you?"

"Can you open up?"

"The post office is closed for the day. Come back in five years."

"I have money."

"Paper money?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

He got up out of the couch. Slowly, slowly. The contours of things didn't want to stay put. His head was full of lead. Concrete cap. He stood still for a few seconds, swaying. The concrete floor tilted dreamily to the right, to the left, like in the Fun House. He walked forward, one step at a time, lifted the latch, pushed open the door. It was that boy. Frank's friend. Ray stared at him without understanding what he was seeing.

Sun and surf. The boy was wearing only a thin dress. Yellow, with white dots that absorbed Ray's gaze, and he tried to focus on the dots but they started to dance, move around so he became sick to his stomach. He was maybe twenty centimeters shorter than him.

"Is it summer now all of a sudden?" He asked.

The boy put his head to one side. "What?"

"Well you're wearing a- what's it called… a _sundress_."

"Yes."

Ray nodded, pleased that he had been able to think of the word. What had he said? Money. Yes.

"Do you wanna buy something?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"Can I come in?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Say that I can come in."

"Step inside. Welcome to the local branch. Come in, come in." Ray made an exaggerated, sweeping gesture with his arm. Saw his own hand moving in slow-motion, a drugged fish swimming through the air.

He didn't have the energy to stay on his feet any longer. The floor wanted him. He turned around and flopped back on the couch. The boy walked in, closed the door behind him, put the latch back on. He saw him as an enormous chicken, giggling at his vision. The chicken sat down in an armchair.

"What is it?" The chicken asked.

"No, it's just- you're so… yellow."

“I see.” The boy crossed his hands over a little burlap drawstring bag in his lap. He hadn't noticed that he had one. Ray looked at it. You see a bag. You wonder what's inside.

"What do you have in there?"

"Money."

"Uh-huh." _Nope. This is fishy. There's something strange about this._ "What do you want to buy, then?"

The boy pulled open the bag and took out a hundred dollar bill. One more. Then another. Ray was able to count. A thousand dollars. Three times over. The bills looked ridiculously large in his small hands when he leaned forward and laid them on the floor.

Ray chortled. "What's all this?"

"Three thousand."

"Yeah, but what for?"

"For you."

"Give me a break."

"No, really."

"That must be some kind of monopoly money or something. Isn't it?"

"No."

"It isn't?"

"No."

"What's it for, anyway?"

"Because I want to buy something from you."

"You want to buy something for three thou… no." Ray stretched out one arm as far as he could, snapped up a bill. Felt it, crinkled it with his hand, held it up against the light and saw the watermark. Same president or whatever who was printed on the front. The real deal.

"You're not kidding, are you?"

"No."

_Three thousand. I could go somewhere. Fly somewhere._

Then Steven and his mom could do what they want. Ray felt his head clear a little. The whole thing was weird, but okay: three thousand. That was a fact. Now the only question was why.

"What do you want to buy? For this you can have… "

"Blood."

"Blood." Ray nearly spit.

"Yes."

Ray snorted, shook his head. "No, sorry. We're all sold out." The boy sat still in the armchair, looking at him. Didn't even smile. "No, but seriously," Ray said. "I mean, what?"

"You'll get this money… if I get some blood."

"I don't have any."

"Yes, you do."

"No."

"Yes."

Ray suddenly got it.

_What the hell…_

"Are you fucking serious?"

The boy pointed at the bills. "It's not dangerous."

"But… _what_ … _how_?"

The boy stuck his hand into the bag, fished something out. A small, white, square bit of plastic. Shook it. It rattled a little. Now Ray saw what it was. A packet of razor blades. He put it into his lap, took out something else. A skin-colored rectangle. A large Band-Aid.

_This is ridiculous._

"No, cut it out _now_ . Don't you get that I could just take that money from you, you know. Put it in my pocket and say, ‘ _What_ ? Three _thousand_? Haven't seen it.’ It's a lot of money. Where did you get it from?"

The boy shut his eyes, sighed. When he opened them again he didn't look as friendly. "Do you want to or not?"

_He means it. He really means it. No…_

"What, are you, like, going to… _swish_ , and then… "

The boy nodded, eagerly.

_Swish? Wait a minute. Wait a god damned second now… what was it? About pigs?_

He frowned. The thought bounced around inside his head like a rubber ball thrown hard inside a room, trying to find a resting place, to stop. And it stopped. He remembered something. Gaped. Looked her in the eyes. ‘ _They’re alive. Kicking around and screaming.’_

"N-no, _no_."

"Yes."

"This is some kind of joke, isn't it? Sick fuck. You know what? Go. I want you to leave."

"I have an illness. I need blood. You can have more money if you want." He dug around in the bag and took out twenty more notes, put them on the floor. Five thousand. "Please."

The murderer. In the forest. His throat slit. Hung upside down like a pig to be butchered. But this little boy didn’t match.

"What do you need it for? What the hell, you're just a _kid_ , you-"

"Are you scared?"

"No, I can always…” His eyes met his. Big and dark like marbles. Shining under the single lightbulb overhead. “Are _you_ scared?"

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"Of you saying no."

"But I am saying no. This is completely ridiculous. Come off it. Go home."

The boy sat still in the chair, thinking. Then he nodded, got up, and picked the money up off the floor, put it back in the bag. Ray looked at the spot where it had been. Five. Thousand. A clink as the latch was lifted. Ray turned over on his back.

“Hey!” The boy stopped. “Are you going to slit my throat?”

"No, on the inside of your elbow. Only a little."

"Then what are you gonna do with it?"

"Drink it."

"Now?"

"Yes."

Ray's mind turned inward and he saw that chart of the circulatory system projected over his skin like an overhead transparency. Felt, maybe for the first time in his life, that he had a circulatory system. Not just isolated points, wounds where one or more drops came out, but a large pumping tree of veins filled with… how much was it?... four or five liters of blood.

"What kind of illness is it?"

The boy didn't say anything, just stood there at the door with the latch in his hand, studying him. Then the lines of veins and arteries of his body, the chart, suddenly took on the character of a butcher's chart. He pushed the thought away, and thought instead: Become a blood donor. Twenty-five even and a cheese sandwich.

"So give me the money." Ray sighed and relaxed back into the cushion.

"How about if I give you the three now. And two after?" The boy opened the bag, took out the bills again.

"Yeah, sure. But I could just jump you and take the money anyway, don't you get that?"

"No. You couldn't." He held the three thousand out to him, between index and middle finger. Ray held each one of them up to the light, checking to make sure that they were genuine. Rolled them into a cylinder that he clenched his left hand around.

"Alright. And now what?"

The boy put the other two bills on the chair, crouched down next to the couch, dug out the white packet from the bag, shaking out a razor blade.

_He’s done this before._

"You can't tell anyone about this." The boy turned the razor blade to see which side was sharper. Then held it up next to his face.

"What if I do?"

"You cannot tell anyone about this. Ever."

"No." Ray glanced at his outstretched arm, at the money stack on the chair. "How much are you going to take?"

"One liter."

"Is that a lot?"

"Yes."

"Is it so much that I’ll croak?"

"No. You can handle it."

"Because it comes back."

"Yes."

Ray nodded. Then watched with fascination as the razor blade, shining like a little mirror, was lowered against his skin. As if it was happening to someone else, somewhere else. Only saw the play of lines. The boy’s jawbone, his dark hair, his white arm, the rectangle of the razor blade that pushed aside a thin hair on his arm and reached its goal, rested for a split second against the swelling of the vein, somewhat darker than the surrounding skin.

Then it pressed down, lightly, lightly. A point that sank down without puncturing it. Then…

 _Swish_.

He had an involuntary reaction to pull away and Ray gasped, squeezed his other hand tightly around the bills. A creaking inside his head as his teeth bit down, grinding against each other. The blood streamed out, pressed out in spurts.

The razor blade fell to the floor with a tinkle and the boy grabbed hold of his arm with both hands, pressing his lips against the inside of his arm.

Ray turned his head away, only felt his warm lips, his tongue lapping against his skin, and again he saw that chart inside his head, the channels that the blood ran through, rushing toward that opening.

_It's running out of me._

The intensity of the pain increased. The arm was starting to feel paralyzed; he no longer felt the lips, he only felt the strong suction, how it was sucked out of him, how it was flowing away.

He got scared. Wanted to put an end to it. It hurt too much. The tears came to his eyes, he opened his mouth to say something, but couldn't. There were no words that would come. He bent his free arm toward his mouth, pressed the clenched fist against his mouth. Felt the cylinder of paper that stuck out of it. Bit down on it.

-

‘Are you sleeping?"

"No."

"Have you had a good time?" A waft of perfume and cold as his mom came into his room, sat down on the bed.

"Uh-huh."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing really."

"I saw some papers. On the kitchen table."

"Mhm." Frank pulled the covers more tightly around him, pretended to yawn.

"Are you sleepy?"

"Mhm."

True and not true. He was tired, so tired his head was buzzing. Only wanted to roll himself up in his covers, seal the entrance, and not emerge again until it was done. But not sleepy. And could he even sleep now that he was infected?

Heard his mother ask him something about his dad, and he said "fine" without knowing what he was answering. It got quiet. Then his mom sighed, deeply.

"Sweetheart, how are you doing, really? Is there anything I can do?"

"No."

"What is it?"

Frank pressed his face into the pillow, breathing out so that his nose, mouth, and lips became hot and moist. He couldn't do it. It was too hard. Had to tell someone.

Into the pillow he said, "M’nfeted"

"What did you say?"

He lifted his mouth from the pillow. "I'm infected."

His mom's hand stroked the back of his head, across his neck, continued, and the blankets came off a little. "How do you mean, inf... but you're still wearing all your clothes!"

"Yeah."

"Let me feel you. Are you hot?" She leaned her cold cheek onto his forehead. "You have a fever. Come on. You have to take your clothes off and get into bed properly." She stood up and gently shook his shoulder. "Come on." She was breathing faster now, thinking something else. Said in a different tone of voice. "Weren't you dressed warmly enough when you were at your dad's?"

"I was, it's not that."

"Were you wearing a hat?"

"Yes. It's not that."

"What is it then?"

Frank pressed his face into the pillow again, squeezed it, and said: "M’gon be avapire."

"Frank, what are you saying?"

"I'm going to be a vampire!"

Pause. The soft rustling of his mother's coat as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Frank. Get up. And take your clothes off. And get into bed."

"I'm going to be a vampire."

His mom's breathing. Deliberate, angry. "Tomorrow I am going to throw away all of those books you're always reading!"

The covers were pulled off him. He got up, slowly took his clothes off, avoided looking at her. Lay down in the bed again, and his mom tucked the covers in around him.

"Do you want anything?"

Frank shook his head.

"Should we take your temperature?"

Frank shook his head harder. Now he looked at her. She was leaning over the bed, hands on her knees. Searching, concerned eyes.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"No. Well, yes."

"What?"

"No, nevermind."

"No, tell me."

"Could you, uh, tell me a story?"

A string of different emotions crossed his mom's face: sadness, joy, worry, a small smile, a wrinkle of concern. All in a few seconds. Then she said: "I don't know any fairy tales. But I- I can read one to you if you want. If we have some books."

Her gaze went up to the bookcase by Frank's head.

"No, don't bother."

"But I'm happy to do it."

"No, I don't want you to."

"Why not? You said-"

"I know, I did, but no. I don't want you to."

"Should I... should I sing something?"

"No, mom."

She pressed her lips together, hurt. Then she decided not to be, since Frank was sick. "I guess I could think of something, if that’s what you want."

"No, it's fine. I want to sleep now."

His mom eventually said good night, left the room. Frank lay there, his eyes open, staring at the window. Tried to feel if he was in the process of becoming. Didn't know what that felt like. Gerard. How had that actually worked when he was transformed? To be separated from everything.

Leave. His mom, dad, school, Dominic, Ray.

To be with Gerard. Always.

He heard the TV go on in the living room, how the volume was quickly lowered. Distant clatter of the coffee pot from the kitchen. The gas stove being turned on, rattle of a cup and saucer. Cupboards opened.

The normal sounds. He had heard them a hundred times. And he felt sad. So very sad.

-

 

**Monday, November 9**

Half an hour until sunrise. Gerard is reclining in the armchair in the living room. He has been here all night, morning. Packed up what there is to pack.

Tomorrow evening, as soon as it gets dark, Gerard will go to a telephone booth and ring a taxi. He doesn't know which number to call, but it's probably something that everybody knows. Just have to ask. When the taxi comes he'll load his three boxes into the trunk and ask the taxi driver to take him…

Where?

Gerard shuts his eyes, tries to imagine a place he would like to be.

As usual, the first image he sees is of the cottage where he lived with his parents, his older siblings. But it is gone. Outside where it once stood there is now a roundabout. The stream where his mother rinsed their clothes has dried up, become overgrown, a depression next to the intersection.

Gerard has a lot of money. Would be able to ask the taxi driver to take him anywhere, as far as the darkness allows. North. South. Could sit in the back seat and ask the driver to drive north for two hundred dollars. Then get out. Start over. Find someone else.

"I don't want to!" Gerard throws his head back, screams up at the ceiling.

The dusty cobwebs sway slightly in his exhalation. The sound dies in this sealed room. Gerard puts his hands up on his face, presses his fingers against his eyelids. Feels it in his body, the approaching sunrise, like a worry.

"God. God? Why can't I have anything? Why can't I… " He whispers.

It has been brought up many times before, this question.

_Why can't I be allowed to live?_

_Because you should be dead._

Only once after he had been infected did Gerard meet another infected person. A grown woman. Just as cynical and hollow as the rich men he passed in the bread shops. But Gerard received an answer to another question that had been nagging him.

"Are there many of us?"

"No. We are so few. So few." The woman shook her head and had said with theatrical sadness.

"Why?"

"Why? Because most of us kill ourselves, that's why. You must understand that. Such a heavy burden, oh my." Her hands fluttered; she said in a shrill voice: "Ooh, I cannot bear to have dead people on my conscience."

"Can we die?"

"Of course we can. All you have to do is set fire to yourself. Or let other people do it; they are only too happy to oblige, have done so through the ages. Or… " She held out her index finger and pressed it hard into Gerard's chest, above the heart. "There. That's where it is, isn't it? But now my friend, I have a wonderful idea… "

And Gerard had fled from that wonderful idea. As before. As later.

Gerard put his hand on his heart, felt the slow beats. Maybe it was because he was a child. Maybe that was why he hadn't put an end to it. The pangs of conscience were weaker than his will to live.

Gerard got up out of the armchair. Michael would not turn up tonight, not ever again. But before Gerard went to rest he had to check on Ray. That he had recovered. He had not become infected. For Frank's sake he wanted to make sure that Ray was fine.

Gerard turned off all the lights and left the apartment.

Down in Ray's stairwell all he had to do was pull the cellar door open; a long time ago when he was down here with Frank, he had tucked a piece of paper into the lock so it would stay unlatched when the door closed. He stepped into the cellar corridor and let the door fall shut behind him with a muted thud.

He stopped, listened. Nothing.

No sound of a sleeping person's breathing; only the cloying smell of paint thinners, glue. He walked quickly along the corridor to the storage area, pulled open the door. Empty.

Twenty minutes until sunrise.

-

During the night, Ray had glided in and out of a daze of sleep, half-wakefulness, nightmares. He didn't know how much time had gone by when he started to wake up properly. The naked bulb in the cellar was always the same. Maybe it was dawn, morning, day. Maybe school had already started. He didn't care.

His mouth tasted of glue and he ran his tongue over his dry teeth. He looked around bleary-eyed. There were a lot of dollar bills on his chest. Hundred dollar bills. He bent his arm to pick them up, felt a tugging on his skin. A large Band-Aid was pasted over the inside of his elbow, a small blood stain in the middle of the patch.

But there was something more.

He turned in the couch, searching along the inside of the cushions, and found the roll he had dropped during the night. Three thousand more. He unfolded the bills, put them together with the bills from his chest, felt the whole lot, made them crinkle. Five thousand. Anything he wanted to do.

He looked at the Band-Aid, chuckled. Not bad for just lying back and closing your eyes.

_Not bad for just lying back and closing your eyes._

What was that? Someone had said it.

That was it. Tim’s sister, what was her name…  Angela? Turning tricks, Tim had told him. And she got five hundred for it, and Tim’s comment was that.

"Not bad for… "

_Just lying back and closing your eyes._

Ray squeezed the bills in his hand, scrunched them up into a ball. The boy had paid for and drunk his blood. An illness, he had said. But what kind of fucking illness was that? He had never heard of anything like it. And if you had something like that, you went to the hospital, then they gave you treatment. You didn't fucking go down into some basement with five thousand and…

 _Swish_.

Ray sat up in the couch, pulled off the blanket.

_They didn't exist. No. Not vampires. That boy, the one in the yellow dress, he must somehow believe that he is. But wait, wait. It was that Ritual Killer that... the one they were searching for…_

Ray leaned his head in his hands; the bills crinkled against his ear. He couldn't figure it out. But in any case he was damn scared of that boy now. Just as he was thinking about going back up to the apartment after all, even if it was still night, come what may, he heard the door to his stairwell open. His heart fluttered like a frightened bird and he looked around.

Weapon.

The only thing he could see was the broom. Ray's mouth was pulled up into a smile that lasted for a second.

_The broom- a good weapon against vampires._

Then he remembered, got up and walked to the safety room while he stuffed the money into his pocket. Cleared the corridor in one step and slid into the safety room as the cellar door opened. Didn't dare lock the door since he was afraid he would hear it.

He sank into a crouch in the dark, tried to breathe as silently as possible.

“Who’s been in here?” A man’s voice boomed. The same old man who always demanded to know who had been in here, huffing glue and looking at porno mags.

“Fuck you.” Ray sighed to himself. Opening the safety room door and walking past him, not looking him in the eye.

He walked with wide eyes, keeping his surrounding area clear until he got to his room. Locked the door and laid in his bed. Got up, unlocked the door and left it wide open. Turned his desk lamp on. Checked the closet and under the bed. Leaned his head into the hall and looked around. Laid back down, leaving the light on. 

-

The razor blade glimmered on the floor. One corner was stained with brown, like rust. Gerard tore off a corner of the cover of a motorcycle magazine, wrapped the paper around the razor blade, put it into his back pocket.

Ray was gone; that meant he was alive. He had left on his own, gone home to sleep, and even if he put two and two together he didn't know where Gerard lived.

_Everything is as it should be. Everything is… great._

There was a wooden broom with a long handle leaned up against the wall.

Gerard picked it up, broke it over his knee, almost as far down as the head of the broom. The surface of the break was rough, sharp. A thin stake, about an arm's length. He put the point against his chest, between two ribs. Exactly the place that the woman had put her finger.

He took a deep breath, squeezed the shaft, and tried on the thought.

_In! In!_

Breathed out, loosened his grip. Squeezed again. Pressed.

For two minutes he stood with the point one centimeter from his heart, the shaft held firmly in his hand. He removed the wooden stake from his chest, when the cellar door opened, listened. Heard large heavy steps from a man. Dragging slippers along the concrete. Could smell aftershave and coffee.

-

The sun caught up with Gerard in the courtyard, a glowing tong that pinched his ear. Instinctively, he backed up into the shade of the vaulted entrance to the yard, squeezed the three plastic bottles of denatured alcohol to his chest, as if to shield them from the sun as well.

Ten steps away was his front door. Fifteen steps to Frank's. And Twenty steps to Ray's.

_I can't do it._

No, if he had been healthy, strong, he would perhaps have tried to make it to Frank's entrance through the flood of light that grew in intensity for every second he waited. But not to Ray's. And not now.

_Ten steps. Then up the stairs. The big window in the stairwell. If I trip. If the sun will get me._

Gerard ran.

The sun threw itself over him like a hungry lion, biting itself into his back. Gerard almost lost his balance as he was thrown forward by the sun's physical, howling force. Nature vomited its disgust at his transgression: to show himself in sunlight for even one second.

It sizzled, bubbled, like someone pouring boiling oil on Gerard's back when he reached the front door, threw it open. The pain almost made him faint and he moved toward the steps as if drugged, blinded; didn't dare open his eyes for fear that they would melt.

He dropped one of the bottles, heard it roll away across the floor. Couldn't be helped. With head bent, one arm wrapped around the remaining bottles, the other on the banister, he limped up the stairs, reached the landing. One flight left.

Through the window the sun delivered a last swipe at his neck, snapped at him, then bit him in the thighs, calves, heels while he moved up the stairs. He was burning. The only thing missing was flames. He got the door open, fell into the wonderful, cool darkness inside. Slammed the door shut behind him. But it was not dark.

The kitchen door was open and in the kitchen there were no blinds in front of the window. The light was weaker, grayer than what he had just experienced and, without hesitation, Gerard dropped the bottles onto the floor, continued on. While the light clawed relatively tenderly at his back as he crawled down the corridor to the bathroom the smell of burnt flesh wafted into his nose.

_I will never be whole again._

He stretched his arm out, opened the bathroom door, and crawled into the compact darkness. He pushed a couple of plastic jugs out of the way, closed the door, and locked it. Before he slid into the bathtub he had time to think.

_I didn't lock the front door._

But it was too late. Rest turned him off at the same moment as he sank down into the wet darkness. He wouldn't have had the energy anyway.

-

Frank's mom had woken him up at ten past seven, the usual. He had climbed out of bed and had breakfast, as usual. He had put his clothes on and then hugged his mom good-bye at half past seven, as usual. He felt like normal. Filled with anxiety, dread, sure. But even that wasn't unusual when he was heading back to school after the weekend.

He packed his geography book, the atlas, and the photocopy he had not finished. Was ready at twenty-five minutes to eight. Didn't need to leave for fifteen minutes. Should he sit down and do that worksheet anyway? No. Didn't have the energy. He sat down at his desk, stared at the wall. This must mean he wasn't infected? Or was there an incubation period? No, he didn’t think so.

_I'm not infected._

He should be happy, relieved. But he wasn't. The phone rang.

_Gerard! Something has happened to him._

He shot up from the table, out into the hall, yanked up the telephone receiver.

"Hi, this is Frank!" He spoke the words quicker than he knew he could.

"Oh… hello there." Dad. It was only Dad.

"Hi."

"Well, so, you're at home."

"About to leave for school."

"Right, in that case I won't keep you long. Is your mother home?"

"No, she left for work."

"I see, I thought as much." Frank got it. That was why he was calling at this strange time: because he knew Mom wasn't home. His dad cleared his throat.

"So I was thinking… about what happened Saturday night. It was a bit unfortunate."

"Okay."

"Yes. Did you tell your mother about what happened?"

"What do you think?"

There was silence on the other end. The static crackle from miles of telephone lines. Crows sitting on them, shivering, while people's conversations darted past under their feet. His dad cleared his throat again.

"You know, I asked about those ice skates and it worked out. You can have them."

"I have to go now."

"Yes, of course. Hope you have a good day at school."

"Okay. Bye." Frank put the receiver down, picked up his bag and left for school.

He felt nothing.

-

Five minutes left until the lesson started and quite a few members of the class were standing in the corridor outside the classroom. Frank hesitated for a moment, then tossed his bag onto his shoulder and walked toward the door. All eyes turned toward him. Running the gauntlet. Gang attack.

He had feared the worst. Everyone knew what had happened to Dominic on Thursday, of course, and even though he couldn't pick Dominic's face out of the crowd it was Ethan's version they had heard on Friday. And Ethan was there, with his idiot grin pasted on his face, like usual.

Instead of slowing down, preparing to escape in some way, he lengthened his stride, walking quickly toward the classroom. He was empty inside. He didn't care what happened anymore. It wasn't important.

And sure enough: a miracle occurred. The sea parted.

The group assembled outside the door broke up, created room for Frank to get to the door. He had not expected anything else actually. If it was because of some strength emanating or because he was a stinking pariah who had to be avoided; it didn't matter. He was different now. They sensed it, and slunk back.

Frank walked into the classroom without looking to either side, sat down at his desk. He heard murmuring from the corridor and after a few minutes they streamed back in. Marcus gave him the thumbs up when he walked past. Frank shrugged.

Then the teacher came in and five minutes after the lesson started, Dominic arrived. Frank had expected him to have some kind of bandage over his ear, but there wasn't anything. The ear was, however, dark red, swollen, and didn't look like it belonged to his body.

Dominic took his seat. He didn't look at Frank, didn't look at anyone.

_He’s ashamed._

Frank turned his head to look at Dominic, who pulled a photo album out of his backpack and slipped it into his desk. And he saw that Dominic's cheeks had turned bright red, matching his ear. Frank thought about poking his tongue out at him, but decided against it. Too childish.

-

During the long recess at half past nine both Lucas and Marcus came over to Frank and said "great job" and "fucking awesome." Lucas offered him chewy candy cars and Marcus asked if Frank wanted to come with them and collect empty bottles one day.

No one shoved him or held his nose when he walked past. Even Ethan smiled, nodding encouragingly as if Frank had told him a funny story when they met in the corridor outside the cafeteria. As if everyone had been waiting for him to do exactly what he did, and now that it was done he was one of them.

The problem was that he couldn't enjoy it. He noted it, but it didn't affect him. Great not to be picked on anymore. If someone tried to hit him, he would hit back. But he didn't belong here anymore.

During math class he raised his head and looked at the classmates he had been with for six years. They sat with their heads bent over their work, chewing on pens, sending notes to each other, giggling. And he thought: But they're just kids.

And he was also a kid, but…

He doodled a cross in his book, changed it to a kind of gallows with a noose.

_I am a child, but…_

He drew a train. A car. A boat. A house. With an open door.

His anxiety grew. At the end of math class he couldn't sit still, his feet banged on the floor, his hands drummed against his desk. The teacher asked him, with a surprised turn of her head, to be quiet. He tried, but soon the restlessness was there again, pulling in the marionette threads and his legs started to move on their own.

When it was time for the last class of the day, gym class, he couldn't stand it any longer. In the corridor he said to Marcus. "Tell Avila I'm sick, OK?"

"Are you taking off, or what?"

"Don't have my gym clothes."

This was actually true; he had forgotten to pack his gym clothes this morning, but that was not why he had to cut class. On the way to the subway he saw the class line up in straight rows. Lucas shouted "Boo!" at him.

Would probably tell on him. Didn't matter. Not in the least.  
  
\-   
  
The pigeons fluttered up in gray flocks as he hurried across shop square. A woman with a stroller wrinkled up her nose in judgement at him; someone who doesn't care about animals. But he was in a hurry, and all the things that lay between him and his goal were mere objects, were simply in the way.   
  
He stopped outside the toy store. Smurfs were arranged in a sugary cute landscape. Too old for stuff like that. In a box at home he had a couple of G.I Joe action figures that he had played with quite a bit when he was younger. About a year or so ago.   
  
An electronic doorbell sounded as he opened the door. He walked through a narrow aisle where plastic dolls, green army men, and boxes of building models filled the shelves. Closest to the register were the packages with molds for tin soldiers. You had to ask for the blocks of tin at the counter.   
  
What he was looking for was stacked on the counter itself. The imitations were stacked under the plastic dolls, but the originals, with the Rubik's logo on the packaging, they were more careful with. They cost ten bucks apiece.   
  
A short pudgy man stood behind the counter with a smile that Frank would have described as ‘ingratiating’ if he had known the word.   
  
"Hello, are you looking for anything special today?"   
  
"Yes. I was wondering about the paints. For tin." Frank had known the Cubes would be stacked on the counter, had his plan figured out.   
  
"Yes?" The man gestured to the tiny pots of enamel paint arranged behind him. Frank leaned over, putting the fingers of one hand on the counter just in front of the Rubik's Cubes while the other hand held his bag, hanging open underneath. He pretended to search among the colors.   
  
" _Gold_ . Do you have that?"   
  
"Gold. Of course."   
  
When the man turned around Frank took one of the Cubes, popped it into his bag, and had just managed to return his hand to the same place when the man came back with two pots of paint and placed them on the counter. Frank's heart was beating heat up into his cheeks, across his ears.   
  
"Matte, or metallic?"

The man looked at Frank, who felt how his whole face was a warning sign on which it was written, "Here is a thief." In order not to draw attention to his red cheeks he bent over the tins, said: "Metallic. That one looks fine."  
  
He had six dollars. The paint cost five. He got it in a little bag that he scrunched into his coat pocket in order not to have to open his school bag.   
  
The kick came as usual when he was outside the store, but it was bigger than normal. He trotted away from the store like a newly freed prisoner, just released from his cuffs. Could not help but run to the parking lot and, with two cars shielding him, carefully open the packaging, take out the Cube.   
  
It was much heavier than the imitation he owned. The sections slid smoothly, as if on ball bearings. Perhaps they were ball bearings? Oh well, he wasn't planning to take it apart and examine it, risk destroying it.   
  
The box was an ugly thing made of transparent plastic, now that the Cube was no longer in it, and on the way from the parking lot he threw it into a trash can. The Cube looked better without it. He put it in his coat pocket in order to be able to caress it, feel its weight in his hand. It was a good present, a great good-bye present.   
  
In the entrance to the subway station he stopped.   
  
_If Gerard thinks that I…_   
  
That he, by giving Gerard a present, somehow accepted the fact that Gerard was leaving. Give a good-bye present, over and done with. Good-bye, good-bye. But that wasn't how it was. He absolutely didn't want it.   
  
His gaze swept across the station, stopped at the kiosk. At the rack of newspapers. The Express paper. The whole first page was covered in a picture of the old guy who had lived with Gerard. Frank walked over and flipped through the paper. Five pages were devoted to the the Ritual Killer, background and then: yet another page where the photo was printed. Gerard Way. Ohio. Unknown whereabouts for eight months. Police turning to the public. If anyone has observed…   
  
Anxiety dug its claws into Frank.   
  
Someone else who might have seen him, known where he lived. ..   
  
The kiosk lady leaned out through the kiosk window.   
  
"Are you buying it or not?"   
  
Frank shook his head, tossed the paper back into its place. Then he ran. It was only once he was down on the platform that he remembered he hadn't shown his ticket to the ticket collector. He stomped his feet on the ground, sucked on his knuckles, his eyes teared up. Come on, please, subway train, come on.

-

Outside the kiosk a person had leaned up against the window, was talking to the kiosk owner. Seth saw a black lump fall from the sky, attach itself to the person's back.  
  
_What the hell?_   
  
He stopped in front of the rows of headlines, blinked, tried to focus properly on the photo that nearly filled the available space. The Ritual Killer. Seth snorted. He knew better. What this was actually about.   
  
He recognized that face. At the cafe where he and his friends used to drink and smoke and laugh together. The man who bought him the whisky.   
  
He took a step forward, looked more closely at the picture. Yes. It was. The same closely-set eyes, the same tight mouth. Seth put his hand to his mouth, pressed his fingers to his lips. The images whirled around, attempted connections.  He had let him buy him drinks, the one who killed his best friend, Jack. Jack’s killer had lived in the same building complex as him, only a few doors down. He had greeted him a couple of times, he had been friendly.   
  
_But he wasn't the one who did it. That must have been…_ _  
_   
A voice. Said something.   
  
"Hi Seth. Someone you know, or what?"   
  
The owner of the kiosk and the man outside were both looking at him.   
  
"Yes… ." He said, and started to walk again, toward his apartment. The world disappeared. In his mind's eye he saw the doorway the man came out of. The covered windows of the apartment. He was going to get to the bottom of this. He was.   
  
His pace quickened and his spine straightened out; the lead weight was a pendulum now that beat against his chest, making him tremble, his resolve thundering through his body.   
  
Here I come. By Jove…  here I come.   
  
\-   
  
The subway train stopped and Frank chewed his lips, impatiently, with a touch of panic, thought the doors stayed open too long. When there was a click on the speaker system he thought the driver was about to announce a delay. "Step away from the doors. The doors are closing." And the train pulled away from the station. He had no plan beyond warning Gerard; that anyone, at any time could call the police and say they had seen the old guy. In the complex. In that building. In that stairwell. In that apartment.   
  
_What happens if the police break down the door? The bathroom._ _  
_   
The train rattled across the bridge and Frank looked out the window. Two men were standing down at the Lover's newsstand and, half-covered by one of the men, Frank could still discern the row of hateful front-page headlines blown up and printed on yellow fliers. The other man walked quickly away from the kiosk.   
  
_Anyone. Anyone can recognize him. He could know._ _  
_   
Frank was already up and standing by the doors when the train started to slow down. He pushed his fingers through the rubber lips between the doors as if that would make them open faster, and leaned his forehead against the glass, cool against his hot skin. The brakes started to squeal and the driver must have been distracted because only now did he announce it was his stop.   
  
Dominic was standing on the platform. And Lucas.   
  
_No. No, no, no. Not them._   
  
When the train, rocking, pulled to a halt, Frank's eyes met Dominic's. They widened, and at the same time as the doors slid open with a hiss, Frank saw Dominic say something to Lucas. Frank tensed, threw himself out through the doors, and started to run. Lucas' long leg flicked out, hooked his, and he fell headlong onto the platform, scraping the palms of his hands when he tried to break his fall. Dominic sat on his back.

"In a hurry to get somewhere?"  
  
"Let me go! Let me go!"   
  
"Why should we?"   
  
Frank shut his eyes, balled his hands into fists. Took a couple of deep breaths, as deep as he could with Dominic's weight on his chest.   


"Do whatever you want. Then let me go." Said into the concrete.  
  
  
"Okie-dokie."   
  
They grabbed him by his arms and pulled him to his feet. Frank caught a glimpse of the station clock. Ten past two. The second hand hacked its way around the face. He tensed the muscles in his face, in his stomach, tried to make himself like a rock, impervious to blows.   
  
_Just let it be over fast._ _  
_   
It was only when he saw what they were planning to do that he started to struggle. But as if by silent agreement both of them had twisted his arms around so that every movement made it feel as if his arms were going to break. They forced him toward the edge of the platform.   
  
_They wouldn't dare. They can't. But Lucas was crazy and Dominic…_   
  
He tried to brace himself with his feet. They danced across the platform while Lucas and Dominic led him up to the white line that marked the start of the drop down toward the tracks. Some hair on his left temple was tickling his forehead, fluttering from the gust of wind coming out of the tunnel as the train from the city approached. The tracks started to hum.

"You're going to die now, you understand?" Dominic whispered.

Lucas giggled, gripped him even harder by the arm. Frank's head went dark: _they're really going to do it._ They forced him out so his upper body was hanging out over the tracks. The lights on the approaching train projected an arrow of cold light over the tracks. Frank jerked his head to the left and saw the train come hurtling out of the tunnel.

The train's signal sounded and Frank's heart leaped in its death throes and his last thought was

_Gerard!_

before he was pulled back, his field of vision filled with green when the train rushed past, a few centimeters in front of his eyes. He lay on his back on the platform, his breath coming in puffs of smoke from his mouth.

"Just so you get it. How things are going to be around here. Understand?" Dominic squatted next to him.

Frank nodded, instinctively. Put an end to it. The old impulses. Dominic gingerly touched his injured ear, smiled. Then he put his hand across Frank's mouth, pushed his cheeks together.

The train on the other side arrived. They left him.

Frank lay where he was for a while, empty. Then a face came floating through the air in front of him. Some lady. She was holding her hand out to him.

"You poor dear. I saw the whole thing. You have to report them to the police. That was… "

_The police._

"...attempted murder. Come, I'll help.."

Frank ignored her hand and jumped to his feet. While he was limping toward the doors, up the stairs, he could still hear the lady's voice.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

-

Seth winced when he walked into the courtyard. He kept going to the first entrance in the row of buildings, walked in. None of the names on the wall told him anything, but he knew which one it was anyway. Third floor, to the right. What could he even say when he got there? But the thought stopped at that point and he only felt that dry, screaming rage again, continued up the stairs. A shift had occurred.

Now his mind was clear and his body clumsy. His feet slipped on the steps and he had to steady himself with the railing in order to maneuver himself up the stairs, while his brain clearly resonated.

_I go in. I find it. I drive something through its heart. Then I wait for the cops._

In front of the door with no name plate he remained standing.

_And how the hell am I going to get in?_

As a kind of joke he tossed out one arm and felt the door handle. And the door opened, revealing an empty apartment. No furniture, rugs, paintings.

_It's gone. There's nothing for me here._

There were two more bottles of Zippo lighter fluid on the floor in the hall. He tried to decide what that meant. Only means that someone has been here recently. Otherwise that bottle back there would be gone.

He stepped in, stopped in the hall and listened. Heard nothing. Did a quick round of the apartment, saw there were blankets hanging in the windows in several rooms, understood why. Knew he was in the right place.

Finally he ended up standing in front of the bathroom door. Pushed the door handle down. Locked. But this lock was no problem; all he needed was a screwdriver or something like that. Again he concentrated entirely on his movements. To perform the movements. He shouldn't think beyond that. No need to. If he started thinking he would hesitate and he wasn't going to hesitate. Therefore: movements.

He pulled out the kitchen drawers, found a kitchen knife. Walked to the bathroom. Inserted the blade into the handle and turned it, clockwise. The lock gave way; he opened the door. It was pitch black in there. He groped around for a light switch, found one. Turned it on.

_God help us. Damned if it isn't._

The knife fell out of Seth's hand. The bathtub in front of his feet was half-filled with blood. On the bathroom floor were several large plastic jugs whose translucent plastic surfaces were smeared with red. The knife clattered against the tile floor like a little bell.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he leaned forward to… to what? To investigate it or something else, something more primal; the fascination of such quantities of blood. To dip his hand into it, to bathe his hands in blood.

He lowered his fingers against the still, dark surface and ... plunged in. His fingers appeared to be severed, disappeared, and with a gaping mouth he lowered his hand.

He screamed, pulled back.

He quickly drew his hand out of the bathtub and drops of blood flew in an arc around him, landing on the ceiling, walls. In a reflex motion he put his hand over his mouth. Only realized what he had done when his tongue, lips registered the copper stickiness. He spit, dried his hands on his pants. Put the other, clean hand over his mouth.

_Someone's lying down there._

What he had felt under his fingertips had been a belly. That had yielded under the pressure of his hand, before he pulled it out. In order to stave off the feeling of revulsion, he scanned the floor, found the knife, picked it up and squeezed the shaft.

_What the hell am I…_

If he had been sober he would perhaps have left at this point. Left this dark pool that could be concealing just about anything under its once more still, polished mirror surface. A butchered body, for example. The stomach is maybe just a stomach.

But the intoxication made him merciless even to his own fear so when he saw the thin chain that led from the edge of the bathtub down into the dark liquid he stretched out his hand and pulled on it.

The plug was pulled out down there, there was a filtering, clucking sound from the pipes and a faint whirl formed on the surface. He kneeled in front of the bathtub, licked his lips. Felt the harsh taste on his tongue, spit on the floor.

The surface became gradually lower. A sharply delineated dark red edge became visible along its highest level.

It must have been here a long time.

After a minute the contours of a nose appeared at one end. At the other a set of toes that, as he watched, became two half feet. The vortex on the surface became narrower, stronger, positioned exactly between the feet.

He crept with his gaze along the child's body that was gradually being revealed on the bottom of the bath. A couple of hands, folded across the chest. Knee caps. A face. A muffled slurp as the last of the blood drained out.

The body in front of his eyes was dark red, blotchy and slimy like a newborn. A boy or a girl? It didn't matter. When he looked closely at the face with its closed eyes he recognized it only too well.

-

When Frank tried to run, his legs froze up. Refused.

During five desperate seconds he had really believed that he was going to die. That they were prepared to push him. Now his muscles were having a hard time getting past the idea. They gave out in the passageway between the school and the gymnasium.

He wanted to lie down. Tip back into those bushes, for example. The jacket and his lined pants would protect him from sharp twigs; the branches would provide gentle support. But he was in a hurry. The second hand; its staccato progress along the clock face.

The school. The red-brown sharp-edged brick facade of stone laid against stone. In his thoughts he swooped like a bird along the corridors, into the classrooms. Dominic was there. Lucas. Sat at their desks and smiled mockingly at him. He bent his head, checked his boots.

The shoelaces were dirty, one about to become untied. A metal hook toward the top had been bent open. He walked slightly pigeon-toed; the leather imitation on both shoes was slightly stretched at the heels, worn to a shine. Even so he was going to be wearing these boots all winter, most likely.

_I won't let them win. I. Won't. Let. Them. Win._

The straight masonry lines of the brick facade dropped away, were rubbed out, disappeared as he started to run. His legs stretched out, the dirt squelched and sprayed up around his feet. The ground flowed out from under him and now it felt as if the Earth was turning too fast, he couldn't keep up.

His legs took him stumbling past the high-rises, the old grocery store, the coconut factory, and with his speed in combination with old habits he rushed into the courtyard and straight to his own building.

His jaws started to chatter, his teeth clicking an unclear Morse code message through his bones while he pulled open the door to Gerard's building, continued on up the stairs.

Say that I can come in.

The door was open.

the police have been here, why did they leave the door open? That wasn't something they did, was it? He put his fingers on the handle, pulled the door the rest of the way open gently, crept into the hallway. It was dark in the apartment. One of his feet bumped into something. A plastic bottle. At first he thought there was blood in the bottle, then he looked and saw it was lighter fluid.

Breathing.

_Someone was breathing._

Moving.

The sound came from the corridor in the direction of the bathroom. Frank walked toward it, one step at a time, folded his lips inward to stop his teeth from chattering and the shivering moved down toward his chin, his neck, the suggestion of an Adam's apple on his neck. He turned the corner, looked into the bathroom.

_That's not a policeman._

A man in shabby clothes was kneeling next to the bathtub, his upper body leaning over the edge, outside Frank's field of vision. He only saw a pair of dirty gray pants, ripped up shoes with the tips pointed down toward the tiled floor. The hem of a coat.

The old guy? But he's breathing, he’s alive.

Hissing inhalations and exhalations, almost like sighs, came from the bathroom and Frank crept closer without consciously thinking about it. Little by little he saw more of the bathroom, and when he was almost level with the bathtub itself he saw what was happening.

-

Seth couldn't do it.

The body at the bottom of the tub looked completely defenseless. It wasn't breathing. He had put his hand on its chest and registered the fact that its heart was beating but only with a few beats a minute.

He had been expecting something terrifying. Something in proportion to the horror he had experienced at the hospital. But this little bloody rag of a person didn't look as if it could ever get up again, much less hurt anyone. It was only a child. A wounded child.

Like seeing someone you love wasting away with cancer, and then being shown a cancer cell through a microscope. Nothing. That? That did this? That little thing? Destroy my heart. He let out a sob, his head falling forward until it hit the edge of the bathtub with a dull, echoing thud. He could _not_ kill a child. A sleeping child. He simply couldn't. Even though, that's how it has managed to survive. It. _It_. Not a child. It.

It had attacked Virginia and it had killed Jack. _It_. The creature lying in front of him. This creature who would do it again, to other people. This creature that was not a person. It wasn't even breathing, and even so its heart was beating like an animal in hibernation.

_Think about the others.A poisonous snake living among people. You think you shouldn't kill it, simply because for the moment it appears defenseless?_

But in the end that wasn't what helped him make up his mind. It was when he looked at the face again; the face covered in a thin film of blood, and he thought it looked like it was smiling. Smiling at all the evil it had done. Enough. He raised the kitchen knife above the creature, moved his legs back a little so he could put all his weight behind the thrust .

"AHH!"

-

Frank screamed.

The old guy didn't flinch; he simply froze, turned his head toward Frank and spoke slowly. "I have to do it. Do you understand?"

Frank recognized him. He was one of the drunks who lived in the apartment complex and said hello to him from time to time.

_Why is he doing this?_

But that was neither here nor there. The important thing was that the guy had a knife in his hands, a knife that was pointing directly at Gerard's chest as he lay there in the bathtub defenseless, exposed.

"Don't do it."

The guy's head moved to the right, to the left, more as if he was looking for something on the floor than signaling refusal.

"No."

He turned back to the tub, to the knife. Frank wanted to explain. That the thing in the bathtub was his friend, that it was his…  that he had a present for the thing in there, that it was _Gerard_.

"Wait!" The point of the knife lay against Gerard's chest, pressed in so hard it almost punctured Gerard's skin. Frank didn't know exactly what he was doing when he shoved his hand into the pocket of his jacket and took out the Cube, showed it to the guy. "Look!"

Seth only saw it in the corner of his eye as a sudden burst of color in the midst of all the black, gray that surrounded him. Despite the bubble of determination that enveloped him he couldn't help turning his head toward it, to see what it was.

One of those Cubes in the boy's hand. Bright colors. Looked completely sick in the current context. A parrot among crows. For a second he was hypnotized by the toy's vividness. Then he turned his gaze back to the bathtub, to the knife that was on its way down between the ribs.

_All I need to do is press._

A change.

The creature's eyes were open.

He tensed in order to drive the knife in all the way, and then his temple exploded.

The Cube creaked when one of the corners smashed into the guy's head and it was wrenched from Frank's hand. The guy fell to one side, landing on a plastic jug that gave way, hitting the side of the tub with a thundering noise like a bass drum.

Gerard sat up. From the bathroom doorway Frank could only see the back of his body. The hair was plastered against the back of his head and his back was one big open wound.

The guy tried to get back on his feet but Gerard didn't so much jump as fall out of the bathtub, landed in his lap: a child seeking comfort from his father. Gerard wrapped his arms around the guy's neck and pulled his head to him to whisper tender words.

Frank backed away from the bathroom as Gerard bit the guy's neck. Gerard hadn't seen him. But the guy saw him. His gaze locked with Frank's, held him fast as Frank moved backward toward the hall.

"Sorry." Frank didn't manage to get any sound out, but his lips formed the word before he turned the corner and the eye contact was broken.

He stood with his hand on the door handle as the guy screamed. Then the sound stopped abruptly as if a hand had been clamped over his mouth.

Frank hesitated. Then he closed the door. And locked it. Without looking to the right he walked down the hall to the living room. Sat down in the armchair.

Started to hum in order to drown out the noise from the bathroom.


	5. Let the right one slip in.

**Monday, November 9**

Pulses of blue light across the bedroom ceiling. Frank is lying in bed with his hands behind his head. Under his bed there are two cardboard boxes. There is money in one, masses of bills, and two bottles of Zippo lighter fluid; the other is filled with puzzles.

The box of clothes was left behind.

In order to conceal the boxes Frank has placed his hockey game at an angle in front of them. Tomorrow he'll carry them down into the basement, if he has the energy. His mom is watching TV, shouting out something about how their building is on the screen. But he only has to get up and go to the window to see the same thing, from another angle.

-

He threw the boxes from Gerard's balcony over to his own while it was still light, while Gerard was washing himself. When he came out of the bathroom the wounds on his back had healed and he was slightly intoxicated from the alcohol in the blood.

They lay in bed together, held each other. Frank told him what had happened in the subway. 

"I'm sorry. About starting this." Gerard apologized.

"No, it's alright."

Silence. For a long time. Then Gerard asked.

"Would you want to… become like me?"

"No. I would like to be with you, but… "

"No, of course you don't. I understand."

In the evening they finally stood up, put their clothes on. They were standing with their arms around each other in the living room when they heard the saw. The lock was being removed. They ran to the balcony, jumped over the railing, landing fairly softly in the bushes below.

From inside the apartment they heard someone.

"What in the world?"

They curled up under the balcony. There was no time. Gerard turned his face to Frank's. Closed his mouth. Then pressed a kiss on Frank's lips.

-

Voices in the apartment next door.

The last thing Gerard had done before they got up was remove the piece of paper with the Morse code. Now strange feet are clomping around in the room where Gerard once lay and tapped on the wall to him.

Frank holds his hand up against the wall.

"Gerard."

-

 

**Tuesday, November 10**

Frank did not go to school on Tuesday. He lay in his bed and listened to the sounds through the wall, wondered if they would find anything that would lead them to him. In the afternoon it grew quiet and they had still not come by.

At that point he got up, put his clothes on, and walked over to Gerard's door. The door to the apartment was sealed. No one was allowed in. While he stood there looking a police officer walked by on the stairs. But Frank was only a curious boy from the neighborhood.

When the sun went down he carried the boxes into the basement and put an old rug over them. Would decide later what he would do with them. If some thief decided to break into their storage unit he would hit the jackpot.

He sat in the darkness of the basement for a long time, thought about Gerard, Ray, the old guy. Gerard had told him everything; that he hadn't meant for things to turn out the way they did. But Ray was alive and would be fine. That's what his mom had told Frank's mom. Ray didn't feel well today or yesterday, but would probably be okay tomorrow.

Tomorrow Frank would go back to school.

To Dominic, and to Lucas.

Dominic's cold hard fingers across his cheeks. Pressing the soft flesh against his jaws until the corners of his mouth were unwillingly forced up. Frank interlaced his fingers, leaned his face against them, looked at the little hill that the rug over the boxes made. He got up, pulled the rug away and opened the box of money.

A variety of money all mixed up, a few bundles of banknotes. He dug around with his hand among the dollars until he found one of the plastic bottles. Then he went up to the apartment and got some matches.

A lone spotlight cast a cold, white glow onto the schoolyard. Outside its circle of light you could see the outlines of playground structures. The Ping-Pong tables that were so cracked you couldn't play on them with anything other than a tennis ball, were covered in slush.

A few rows of school windows were illuminated. Evening classes. For this reason one of the side doors was unlocked. He made his way through the darkened corridors to his homeroom. Stood for a while looking at the desks. The classroom looked unreal at night like this, as if ghosts silently whispering were using it for their school, whatever that would look like.

He walked over to Dominic's desk, opened the lid, and left a few sprays of lighter fluid onto it. Lucas' desk, same thing. He stood without moving for a second in front of Ethan's desk. Decided not to. Then he went and sat at his own desk. Letting it soak in, like you do with charcoal. 

_ I'm a ghost. Boo… boo.  _

He opened the lid and took out his copy of Firestarter, smiled at the title and slipped it into his bag. The exercise book where he had written a story he liked. His favorite pen. They all went into the bag. Then he stood up, made a final round of the classroom and enjoyed simply being there. In peace.

Dominic's desk gave off a chemical smell when he raised the lid again, took out the matches. He went and got two rough-hewn wooden rulers from a shelf at the back of the classroom. Rigged up Dominic's desk with one so it would stay open, Lucas' with the other. Otherwise they would stop burning the moment he let the lids drop.

Two hungry prehistoric animals gaping for food. Dragons.

He lit one match, held it in his hand until the flame was large and clear. Then dropped it. It fell from his hand, a yellow drop. And it exploded like he couldn’t have imagined. 

His eyes stung when a purple comet's tail shot up out of the desk, licked his face. He sprung back; had expected it to burn like charcoal, but the desk was fully lit, one big bonfire reaching up to the ceiling.

It was burning too much. The fire danced, flickered across the classroom walls, and a garland of large letters made of paper, hanging over Dominic's desk, broke off and fell to the floor, the P and Q burning. The other half of the garland swung in a large arc and fell onto Lucas' desk which immediately burst into flames with the same  _ whoosh _ , a searing explosion while Frank ran from the classroom with his schoolbag bouncing on his hip.

_ What if the whole school…  _

When he reached the end of the corridor the bells started to ring. A metallic clatter that filled the building and it was only when he was a good ways down the stairs that he realized it was the fire alarm.

Out in the schoolyard the large bell rang fiercely to assemble students who were not there, gathered up the school's ghosts, and followed Frank halfway home.

Only when he reached the old grocery store and he no longer heard the bell did he relax. He walked calmly the rest of the way. 

In the bathroom mirror he saw that the tops of his eyelashes were rolled up, singed. When he touched them with his finger they broke off.

-

 

**Wednesday, November 11**

Home from school. Headache. The phone rang around nine. He didn't answer. In the middle of the day he saw Ray and his mom walk past outside the window. Ray walked bent over, slowly. Like an old person. Frank ducked down under the windowsill as they went by.

The phone rang every hour. Finally, at twelve o'clock, he picked it up. "This is Frank."

"Hi. My name is Bert Smith and I am, as you may know, the principal of the school that you-"

He hung up. The phone rang again. Frank stood there for a while, looking at the ringing phone, imagining the principal sitting in his checkered sport coat, fingers drumming on the desk, making faces. Then he put his clothes on and went down into the basement. Picked at the puzzles, poked at the little white wooden box where the thousand pieces of the gold egg glittered. Gerard had only taken a couple of thousand and the Cube. He closed the lid of the puzzle box, opened the other, mixed up the rustling bank notes with his hand. Took a fistful of them, threw them on the ground. Pushed them down into his pockets. Took them out one by one. Twelve wrinkled twenty’s and seven five dollar bills lay at his feet.

He gathered up the money into a pile and folded them up. Put the bills back, closed the box. Walked up into the apartment, found an envelope that he stuffed the money into. Sat with the envelope in his hand and wondered what he should do. Didn't want to write, someone could recognize his handwriting.

The phone rang.

_ Stop it. Get that I don't exist anymore. _

Someone wanted to have a long talk with him. Someone wanted to ask him if he realized the gravity of what he had done, which he did. As did Dominic and Lucas probably. Quite well, in fact. Nothing more to talk about.

He walked over to his desk and took out his rubber letters and ink set. In the middle of the envelope he stamped an 'R' and an 'A.' Lastly, a 'Y.'

When he in front of the door to Ray's apartment with the envelope in his coat pocket he was more nervous than he had been at his school the night before. His heart thumping, he gingerly eased the envelope through the mail slot in Ray's door so no one would come to the door or catch sight of him through the window.

But no one came and when Frank was back in his apartment he felt a little better. For a while. Then it snuck up on him again.

_ I won't be here. _

At three o'clock his mom came home, several hours earlier than usual. At that point Frank was sitting in the living room with the Vikings' album. She walked into the room, lifted the needle, and turned off the record player. By her face he sensed that she knew.

"How are things with you?"

"Not so good."

"No?" She sighed, sat down on the couch. "The principal called me. At work. He told me that there was a fire there last night. At your school."

"Really? Did it burn to the ground?"

"No, but," She closed her mouth, her gaze getting stuck in the hooked rug for a few seconds. Then she lifted her eyes and met his. "Frank. Was it you?"

"No." He looked straight back at her. 

Pause.

"No. It's just that it seems that although much of the classroom was destroyed, that Dominic's and Lucas' desks…  that it was there it had started."

"Oh."

"And they were apparently quite sure… that it was you."

"But it wasn't."

His mom sat on the couch, breathing through her nose. They sat a meter apart, an endless distance.

"They want to talk to you."

"I don't want to talk to them."

It was going to be a long evening. There was nothing good on TV.

-

That night Frank couldn't sleep. He got up out of bed, tiptoed to the window. He thought he saw something in the jungle gym down on the playground. But it was just his imagination, of course. Nonetheless he continued to stare at the shadow down there until his eyelids grew heavy. When he got back into bed he still couldn't sleep. He gently tapped on the wall. No answer. Just the dry sound of his own fingertips, knuckles against the concrete, knocking on a door that was closed forever.

-

 

**Thursday, November 12**

Frank threw up in the morning and was allowed to stay home another day. Despite the fact that he had only slept a few hours the night before he was unable to rest. There was a gnawing anxiety in his body that forced him around the apartment. He picked things up, looked at them, put them back.

It was as if there was something he had to do. Something absolutely necessary, but he simply couldn't think of what it was. At the time he had thought he was doing it while he set fire to Dominic's and Lucas' desks. Then he had thought it was giving the money to Ray. But that wasn't it. It was something else.

A great theater performance that was now over. He paced back and forth on the emptied, darkened stage and swept up that which had been left behind. When it was something else....

But what?

When the mail arrived at eleven there was only a single letter. His heart made a somersault in his chest as he picked it up, turned it over.

It was addressed to his mom. "South New Jersey School District" was printed in the upper right-hand corner. Without opening it he ripped it into pieces and flushed them down the toilet. Regretted it. Too late. He didn't care what was written in it, but there would be even more trouble if he started messing around with this, than if he just let it be. But it didn't matter.

He undressed, put on his bathrobe. Stood in front of the mirror in the hall, studied himself. Pretended he was someone else. Leaned over to kiss the glass. At the same time that his lips met the cold surface the phone rang. Without thinking he lifted the receiver. 

"Hi. It's me." 

"Frank?" 

"Yes."

"Hi. Fernando here." 

"Huh?"

"Avila. Mr. Avila." 

"Oh. Yeah. Hi."

"I just wanted to ask, are you coming to the training tonight?" 

"I'm a bit sick."

Silence on the other end. Frank could hear Mr. Avila's breaths. One. Two. Then "Frank. If you did. Or did not. I do not care about this. If you want to talk; we talk. If you do not want to talk; we don't. But I want you to come to the training." 

"Why?"

"Because Frank, you cannot sit like caracol, how do you say… the snail. In the shell. If you aren't sick, you will get sick. Are you sick?"

"Yes."

"Then you need physical fitness training. You will come tonight." 

"What about the others?"

"The others? What are the others? If they are stupid I will say  _ boo _ , they stop. But they are not stupid. This is training." Frank didn't reply. "Okay? You'll come?" 

"Yes.."

"Good. See you later."

Frank put the phone down and everything was quiet around him again. He didn't want to go to the workout session. But he wanted to see Mr. Avila. Maybe he could go there a little earlier, see if he was there. Then go home again when the session started. Not that Mr. Avila would accept that. 

He completed another round of the apartment. Packed his workout things, mainly to have something to do. Lucky he hadn't started the fire in Ethan's desk, since Ethan would be going to the gym. Although maybe it got destroyed anyway because it was right next to Dominic's. How much had actually been destroyed?

Something to ask. 

The phone rang again around three o'clock. Frank hesitated before picking it up, but after the flicker of hope he had felt after seeing the lone envelope he couldn't resist answering it.

"Hello, this is Frank."

"Hi. It's Marcus."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Nothing much."

"Want to do something tonight?"

"When… what?"

"Oh, about seven, or something."

"No, I'm going to the gym."

"Oh. Okay. Too bad. Catch you later."

"Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"I heard there was a fire. In our classroom. Did a lot get destroyed?"

"Nah. Just a couple of desks."

"Nothing else?"

"Nuh-uh, some, uh,  papers and stuff."

"Oh."

"Your desk is fine."

"Oh. Good."

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

Frank hung up with a strange feeling in his stomach. He had thought that everyone knew it was him. But that's not how Marcus had sounded. And his mom had said that a lot had been destroyed. But she could have been exaggerating, of course.

Frank chose to believe Marcus. He had seen it, after all.

-

“Oh, for Christ's sake." Marcus hung up, and looked around, hesitantly. Danny shook his head, blew smoke out of Dominic's bedroom window. "That was the worst I've heard." 

"It's not so easy." Marcus said in a meek voice . Danny turned to face Dominic, who was sitting on the bed pulling at a piece of loose thread on the bedspread. 

"What happened? Half the classroom burned down?" Danny asked. Dominic nodded.

"Everyone in the class hates him."

"And you," Danny turned toward him again, "You say that- what was it you said? ' _ Some paper _ .' Do you think he'll go for that?" Marcus lowered his head, embarrassed.

"I didn't know what to say. I thought he would get suspicious if I said that-"

"Sure, alright. Done is done. Now we just have to hope he turns up." Marcus's gaze flew back and forth between Dominic and Danny. Their eyes were empty, lost in images of the coming evening.

"What are you guys going to do?"

Danny leaned forward in his seat, brushing away a little ash that had fallen on his sweater. "He burned it. Everything we had from our dad. So what we're going to do is something that doesn't concern you. Understand?" 

-

His mom came home at half past five. The lies, the distrust from the night before still hung like a cold cloud between them, and his mom went straight to the kitchen, started making an unnecessary amount of noise with the dishes. Frank shut his door. Laid on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.

He could go somewhere. Out into the yard. Down into the basement. To the square. Take the subway. But there still wasn't any place. He heard his mom walk to the phone and dial a lot of numbers. His dad's probably.

Frank shivered a little.

He pulled the blankets over him, sat up with his head against the wall, listening to the sound of his mom and dad's conversation. If he could talk to Dad. But he couldn't. It never happened.

Frank pulled the blanket around himself, pretending to be an Indian chieftain, indifferent to everything as his mom's voice rose. After a while she started to yell and the Indian chieftain fell down on the bed, pressed the blanket, his hands over his ears.

_ It's so quiet inside your head. It’s like outer space. _

Frank made the lines, colors, dots in front of his eyes into planets, distant solar systems that he traveled through. Landed on comets, flew for a while, jumped off and hovered freely in weightlessness until something pulled on his blanket and he opened his eyes.

Mom was standing there. Her lips twisted. Her voice abrupt and sharp as she talked. "So. Now your father has told me- that he- on Saturday- that you- where were you?! Tell me. Where were you? Can you tell me that?!"

His mom pulled on the blanket up by his face. Her throat tensed to a hard, thick sinew. "You're never going there again. Never. You hear me? Why didn't you say anything? I mean- that bastard. People like him shouldn't have children. He is not going to see you anymore. And then he can sit there and drink as much as he likes. You hear me? We don't need him. I am so…”

His mom twirled abruptly away from the bed, slammed the door so hard the walls shook. Frank heard her rapidly dial the long number again, swearing when she missed a digit, had to start over. A few seconds after she finished dialing she started to yell.

Frank crept out from under his blanket, grabbed his workout bag, and walked into the hall where his mom was so preoccupied with yelling at his dad that she didn't notice the fact that he had slipped on his shoes and walked up to the front door without tying them.

It was only when he was standing in the stairwell that she saw him.

"Wait a second! Where do you think you're going?"

Frank banged the door shut and ran down the stairs, kept running, the soles of his shoes pattering, on his way to the pool.

-

“Mason, Brandon,"

With his plastic fork, Danny jabbed in the direction of the two guys emerging from the subway station. The bite that Dominic had just taken from his meatball sub lodged halfway down his throat and he was forced to swallow again in order to get it down. He looked quizzically at his brother but Danny's attention was directed at the guys on their way over to the hot dog stand, greeted them.

Mason was thin and had long, straggly hair, a leather jacket. The skin in his face was punctured by hundreds of small craters and appeared shrunk since the cheekbones stood out sharply and his eyes seemed unnaturally large.

Brandon had a denim jacket with the arms cut off and a T-shirt under that, and nothing else, even though it was only a couple of degrees above zero. He was a big guy. Spilling out over the edges, cropped hair. An out-of-shape paratrooper. Danny said something to them, pointed, and they took off in the direction of the transformer-station above the subway tracks.

“Why are they coming?" Dominic whispered.

"To help out."

"Do we need it?"

"How were you planning to get around the guy who's in charge?" Danny sniffed and shook his head as if Dominic didn't know the first thing about how these things worked.

"Avila?"

"Yeah, you think he would just let us walk on in?"

Dominic had no answer for this, so he just followed his brother in behind the little brick house. Mason and Brandon were standing in the shadows with their hands in their pockets, stamping their feet. Danny took out a metallic cigarette case, flicked it open, and held it out to the other two.

Mason studied the six hand-rolled cigarettes inside. "My, my, pre-rolled and everything, why thank you, sweetheart." Used two thin fingers to nab the thickest one.

Brandon made a face so he looked like one of the old balcony guys on The Muppet Show. "They lose their freshness if they sit around."

"Quit your whining, ya hag. I rolled them an hour ago. And this isn't any of that Moroccan shit you run around with. This is the real thing." Danny wiggled the case in an inviting way.

Brandon sucked in his breath and helped himself to one of the cigarettes. Mason helped him light it. Dominic looked at his brother. Danny's face was sharply silhouetted against the light from the subway station platform. Dominic admired him. Wondered if he would ever be someone who dared to say " _ ya hag _ ” to someone like Brandon.

Danny also took one of the cigarettes and lit it. The rolled-up paper at the tip burned for a moment before it simply glowed. He inhaled deeply and Dominic was enveloped by the sweet smell that always clung to Danny's clothing.

They smoked in silence for a while. Then Mason held out his joint to Dominic. "You want a drag, or what?" 

Dominic was about to hold his hand out for it, but Danny hit Mason on the shoulder. " _ Idiot _ . Want him to turn out like you?"

"That so bad?"

"Alright for you, maybe. Not for him."

Mason shrugged, took back his offer.

It was half-past six when everyone was done smoking, and when Danny spoke it was with an exaggerated articulation, every word a complicated sculpture he had to get out of his mouth.

"Alright. This is  _ Dominic _ . My  _ brother _ ." Mason and Brandon nodded knowingly. Danny took hold of Dominic's chin with a slightly clumsy movement, turned his head delicately so the other two saw it in profile. "Check out his ear.  _ That's  _ what this squirt did.  _ That's  _ what we're going to take care of."

Mason took a step forward, squinted at Dominic's ear, kissed his teeth. "Shit. It looks bad."

"I'm not asking for an expert opinion. You just listen."

-

The steel gates in the corridor between the brick walls were unlocked. The echo from Frank's footsteps went ka-ploff ka-ploff as he walked over to the door of the swimming pool, pulled it open. A damp warmth wafted over his face and a cloud of vapor billowed out into the cold corridor. He hurried in and shut the door.

He kicked his shoes off and kept going into the locker room. Empty. He heard the sound of running water from the shower room, a deep voice singing.

“Besame, besame mucho. Como sifuera esta noche la ultima vez.”

Mr. Avila. Without taking off his jacket, Frank sat down on one of the benches, waited. After a while both the splashing and the singing stopped and the teacher came out of the shower area with a towel around his hips. His chest looked completely covered in black, curly hair with splashes of gray. Mr. Avila saw him, smiled broadly.

"Frank! So you crawl out of your shell after all."

Frank nodded. "It got stuffy."

Mr. Avila laughed, scratched his chest; the tips of his fingers disappeared in the fuzz. "You are early."

"Yeah, I was thinking." Frank shrugged. Mr. Avila stopped scratching himself.

"You were thinking?"

"I don't know."

"To talk?"

"No, I just-."

"Let me take a look at you."

Mr. Avila took a couple of rapid strides up to Frank, studied his face, nodded. "Aha. Okay."

"What?"

"It  _ was  _ you." Mr. Avila pointed to his eyes. "I see. You have burned your eyebrows. No, what is it called? Underneath. Eye… "

"Lashes?"

"Eyelashes. Yes. A little in the hair as well. Hm. If you don't want anyone to know for sure you have to cut your hair a little. Eye . .. lashes grow fast. Monday it is gone. Gasoline?"

"Zippo."

Mr. Avila expelled air through his lips, shook his head. "Very dangerous. Probably," Mr. Avila touched Frank's temple "You a little crazy. Not a lot. But a little. Why Zippo?"

"I found it."

"Found? Where?"

Frank looked up at Mr. Avila's face: a damp, kindly stone. And he wanted to tell him, wanted to tell him all of it. He just didn't know where to start. Mr. Avila waited.

"To play with fire is very dangerous. Can become a habit. Is no good method. Much better physical exercise." 

Frank nodded, and the feeling disappeared. Mr. Avila was great but he would never understand. "Now you get changed and I show you a little technique with bench press. Okay?"

Mr. Avila turned to go back to his office. Stopped outside the door. "And Frank. You don't worry. I say nothing to nobody if you don't want. Sound good? We can talk more after the training session."

Frank changed his clothes. When he was finished Patrick and Harold came in, two guys from class 6A. They said hi to Frank, but he thought they looked at him a little too long, and when he walked into the gym he heard them start whispering to each other.

A sense of despondency settled in the pit of his stomach. He regretted having come here. But shortly thereafter Mr. Avila came in, now in a T-shirt and shorts, and showed him how you could get a better grip on the bench press bar by allowing it to rest against the tips of your fingers, and Frank managed seventy pounds, two pounds more than last time. Mr. Avila noted the new record in his notebook.

More guys came in, among them Ethan. He smiled his usual, cryptic smile that could mean everything from that he was about to give you a nice present, to he was about to do something terrible to you.

-

It was the latter that was the case, even if Ethan himself did not understand the full extent of it.

On the way to the training session Dominic had come running up to him and asked him to do something, since he was planning to set Frank up. Ethan thought that sounded cool. He liked pranks. And anyway Ethan's complete collection of hockey cards had burned up Tuesday night, so paying Frank back was something he was more than happy to participate in.

But for now, he smiled.

-

The session went on. Frank thought the others were looking at him strangely, but as soon as he tried to meet their eyes they looked away. Most of all he would have liked to go home.

But Mr. Avila was watching over him, bolstering him with peppy comments, and there was kind of no possibility of leaving. And anyway: to be here was at least better than being at home.

When Frank was done with the strength training he was so exhausted he didn't even have the energy to feel bad. He walked off to the showers, lagging a little behind the others, showering with his back facing the room. Not that it mattered. You still showered naked.

He stood for a while by the glass divide between the shower room and the pool, used his hand to make a small peephole in the condensation covering the glass, looked at the others jumping around in the pool, chasing each other, throwing balls. And it came over him again. Not a thought formulated in words, but as a virulent feeling:

_ I am alone. I am completely alone. _

Then Mr. Avila caught sight of him, waved for him to enter, to jump in. Frank shuffled down the short staircase, walked over to the edge of the pool, and looked down into the chemically blue water. He had no spring left in his body, so he climbed in from the ladder, one step at a time and let himself be enveloped by the rather cold water.

Ethan sat down on the edge of the pool, smiled, and nodded at him. Frank took a few strokes in the other direction, toward Mr. Avila.

"Orre!"

He saw the ball come flying in the corner of his eye, a moment too late. It landed in the water exactly in front of him and splashed chlorinated water into his eyes. They stung as if from tears. He rubbed his eyes and when he looked up he happened to see Mr. Avila looking at him with a pitying look on his face. Or disdainful.

Perhaps it was only his imagination, but he hit away the ball floating in front of his face and sank. Let his head glide down under the surface of the water, his hair billowing out and tickling around his ears. He stretched his arms out from his body and floated with his face under the surface, bobbing with the water. Pretended he was dead.

That he could float here forever.

That he would never have to get up and meet the gazes of those who in the final analysis only wanted to hurt him. Or that when he finally lifted up his head the world would be gone. Just him and all this blue.

But even with his ears under the water he could hear the distant sounds, banging sounds from the world above, and when he pulled his face out of the water it was there: echoing, noisy.

Ethan had left his place at the edge of the pool and the others were engaged in some kind of volleyball. The white ball flew into the air, clearly defined against the darkness of the frosted windows. Frank paddled into a corner of the deep end of the pool, stood there with only his nose above the water and watched.

Ethan came walking rapidly from the shower room at the other end of the hall, shouted, "Teacher! The phone in your office is ringing!"

Mr. Avila muttered something and stomped away along the edge of the pool. He nodded to Ethan and disappeared up into the shower rooms. The last Frank saw of him was a blurry contour behind the fogged-up glass.

Then he was gone.

-

As soon as Ethan had left the changing rooms they had taken up their positions.

Dominic and Danny slipped into the exercise gym; Mason and Brandon pressed up against the wall next to the door post. They heard Ethan call out from inside the swim hall, prepared for action.

Soft barefooted footsteps that approached, passed through the gym, and a few seconds later Mr. Avila walked in through the doors to the changing rooms and over to his office. Brandon had already wound the double tube socks filled with small change one time around his hand in order to get a better grip. As soon as the teacher reached the door and stood with his back to him, Brandon stepped out and swung the weight at the back of his head.

Brandon was not particularly coordinated and Mr. Avila must have heard something. Halfway into the swing he turned his head to the side and the blow caught him right above the ear. The effect was nonetheless the desired one. The teacher was thrown forward and to one side, hit his head on the doorpost, and fell to the floor.

Brandon sat on his chest and tucked the heavy ball of coins into his palm so that he would be able to deliver a more controlled blow if needed. Didn't seem like it. The teacher's arms were trembling slightly, but he didn't put up the slightest resistance. Brandon didn't think he was dead. Didn't look like it, at least.

Mason came over, leaned over the prone body as if he had never seen anything like it.

"Is he Jewish or what?" Brandon asked. 

"How the fuck should I know? Get the keys."

While Mason was fumbling for the keys in the teacher's shorts he saw how Dominic and Danny walked out of the gym and toward the pool hall. He got out the keys, tried one after another in the office door, shot a look at the teacher.

"Hairy fucker. He's got to be a Jew."

"Oh, come on." Mason sighed, kept trying the keys.

"I'm only saying it for your sake. Probably feels a little better if- "

"Fuck it. Come on." Mason found the right key and unlocked the door. Before he walked in he pointed to the teacher.  "You shouldn't be sitting on him like that, sweetheart. Can't breathe if you do."

Brandon slid off his chest, sat down next to the body with his weight at the ready in case Avila tried something.

Mason searched through the pocket of the coat he found inside the office, pulled out a wallet with thirty-six dollars. In a desk drawer that, after a short search, he found the key in, there were also ten unstamped subway cards. He took them as well.

Not much in the way of bounty. But that wasn't what this was about. Pure payback.

-

Frank was still in the corner of the pool blowing bubbles in the water when Dominic and Danny walked in. His first reaction wasn't fear, but annoyance.

They were wearing their outdoor clothes. They hadn't even taken their shoes off, and Mr. Avila was so concerned about shoes inside. When Danny stopped at the edge of the pool and started looking out over the pool, the fear came. He had met Danny a few times, briefly, and thought he seemed horrible even then. Now there was also something about his eyes. The way he was moving his head.

Like Ray and those guys when they’ve been sniffing glue or smoking that awful stuff they never wanted to answer about. 

Danny's gaze found Frank's and he realized with a shiver that he was nearly naked. Danny had clothes on, armor. Frank was in the cold water and every centimeter of his body was exposed, covered only by a measly pair of swimming trunks. Danny nodded to Dominic, made a semicircular movement with his hand and, one on either side of the pool, they started to walk toward Frank. 

While he walked, Danny screamed to the others. "Everyone out! Out of the water! Time to fuck off!" The others were standing still or treading water, indecisive. Danny placed himself at the edge of the pool, took a stiletto out of his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and held it like an arrow directed at a group of boys. Thrust it in the direction of the other end of the pool.

Frank was pressed up into the corner, watching shivering while the other boys quickly swam or waded their way to the other end and left him alone in the pool.

_ Mr. Avila… where is Mr. Avila? _

A hand gripped him by the hair, fingers taking hold so firmly that his scalp stung and his head was forced back all the way into the corner. Above him he heard Dominic's voice. 

"That's my brother, you fucker."

Frank's head was banged backward a couple of times against the tile ledge and water splashed up into his ears while Danny walked over to the corner of the pool and crouched down with the stiletto in his hand. 

"Hi there, Frank."

Frank took in a mouthful of water and started to cough. Every shaking motion of his head that the cough induced made his scalp, which Dominic had grasped even more firmly, burn more. When his coughing spell was over Danny clinked the blade against the tiled edge.

"You know what? I was thinking this- you’re gonna love this. That we should have a little competition. Now, don't move." He smiled. And if it weren’t for the needle point blade in his hand, he would’ve looked almost friendly. Almost. 

The stiletto passed right above Frank's forehead as Danny handed it over to Dominic, taking over the grip on Frank's head. Frank didn't dare do anything. He had looked into Danny's eyes for a few seconds and they looked completely crazed. So filled with hate he couldn't look at them.

Frank's head was pressed into the corner of the pool. His arms were helplessly fumbling in the water. Nothing to grip. He looked for the other boys. They were standing at the shallow end of the pool. Ethan was in front, still smiling, in anticipation. The others looked mostly scared.

No one was going to help him.

"So here's the game I thought up. I got a lot of good, original thoughts, Frank. Anyway, it's pretty easy. Easy rules, alright?” He looked at Frank’s eyes. Tried to make eye contact, but the boy wouldn’t look back up at him. “You stay under the water for, let’s say,  _ five  _ minutes. If you can do that we'll just put a little scratch in your cheek or something. A keepsake. If you can't do it well,” He chuckled. “Well, then when you come up, I'll take out one of your eyes. Alright? Understand the rules? Get it?"

Frank got his mouth above the surface. Water was spurting out of his mouth as he spoke and shivered. "I can't do it… "

Danny shook his head. "That's your problem. You see that clock?” He nodded his head towards the large clock above the pool. “We'll start in twenty seconds. Five minutes. Or your eye. Better take a breath now. Ten… nine… eight… seven… "

Frank tried to push away with his legs, but he had to stand on tiptoe to even get his whole head above the water and Danny's hand was holding him by his hair, making all movement impossible.

_ If I pull my hair away… five minutes…  _

When he had tried it on his own he had managed three at most. Almost.

"Six… five… four… three… "

_ Mr. Avila. Mr. Avila will come back before. _

"Two… one… zero."

Frank only managed to take half a breath before his head was pushed down under the water. He lost his foothold and the lower half of his body slowly floated up until he lay with his head bent toward his chest at least a foot under the surface, his scalp burning like fire as the chlorinated water came into contact with the rips and tears in the skin.

No more than a minute could have gone by before the panic came.

He opened his eyes wide and only saw light blue ... veils of pink that swirled from his head past his eyes when he tried to take hold with his body, although it was impossible, since there was nothing to hold onto. His legs were kicking up at the surface rippling the pale blue in front of his eyes, refracted in light waves.

Bubbles rose from his mouth and he threw his arms out, floating on his back, and his eyes were pulled to the white, to the swaying halogen tubes' glow in the ceiling. His heart was throbbing like a hand against a glass pane, and when he happened to draw water in through his nose a kind of calm started to spread in his body. But his heart was beating harder, more persistently, wanted to live, and again he thrashed desperately, tried to get a grip where there was no grip to be had.

And his head was pushed down further. And strangely enough he thought:

_ Better this. Than an eye. _

-

After two minutes Ethan started to feel really uncomfortable.

It seemed like like they really wanted to kill him. He looked around at the other boys, but no one seemed prepared to do anything, and he himself only said a half-muffled: "Dominic… what the hell?"

But Dominic didn't seem to hear him. He was absolutely still on his knees next to the pool with the tip of the stiletto directed into the water, at the refracted white shape moving down there.

Ethan looked up at the shower rooms. Why the hell wasn't the teacher back yet? Patrick had run up to get him; why wasn't he coming? Ethan pulled further up into the corner, next to the dark glass door that looked out onto the night, folded his arms across his chest.

In the corner of his eye he thought he saw something fall down from the roof outside. Something banged on the glass door so hard it rattled in its frame. He stood on tiptoe, peeked out of the window of regular glass at the very top, and saw another boy. Her lifted his face up to his. 

"Say  _ ‘come in _ !'" 

"W-what?" 

Ethan looked back at what was happening in the pool. Frank's body had stopped moving but Danny was still leaned over the edge, holding his head down. Ethan's throat hurt when he swallowed. 

_ Whatever happens. Just make it stop. _

A banging on the glass door, harder this time. He looked out into the darkness. When the boy opened his mouth and shouted at him he could see that his teeth… that there was something hanging from his arms. 

"Say that I can come in!"

_ Whatever happens. _

Ethan nodded, said almost inaudibly. "You can come in."

The boy pulled back from the door, disappeared into the darkness. The stuff that was hanging from his arms shimmered for a moment, and then he was gone. Ethan turned back to the pool. Danny had pulled Frank’s head out of the water and taken the stiletto back from Dominic, moving it down to Frank's face, aiming.

A speck of light was visible in the dark middle window and a split second later it shattered.

The reinforced glass didn't shatter like regular glass. It exploded into thousands of tiny rounded fragments that landed with a rustle at the edge of the pool, after flying out into the hall, over the water, glittering like myriad white stars.

-

 

**EPILOGUE**

 

**Friday, November 13**

Friday the thirteenth. 

Gunnar Hayworth was sitting in the empty principal's office, trying to get his notes in order. He had spent the whole day at the Blackeberg school, studying the scene of the crime, talking with students. Two technicians from downtown and a bloodstain analyst from the National Laboratory of Forensic Science were still securing evidence down by the pool.

Two youths had been killed there last night. A third had disappeared.

He had even talked to Marie-Louise, the class teacher. Had realized that the missing boy, Frank Iero, was the same one who had raised his hand and answered his question about drugs three weeks ago. Hayworth remembered him.

_ I just read a lot, that’s all. _

Also recalled that he had thought the boy would be the first to come out to the police car. He would have taken him for a spin in it, maybe. If possible, bolstered his self-confidence a little. But the boy had not shown up.

And now he was gone.

Gunnar scanned his notes from his conversations with the boys who had been at the pool last night. Their accounts basically matched up, and one word had turned up frequently:  _ angel _ .

Frank Iero had been rescued by an angel.

The same angel who, according to the witnesses, had ripped Dominic and Danny Forsberg's heads off and left them in the bottom of the pool.

When Gunnar told the crime scene photographer, who had used his underwater camera to eternalize the image of the two heads in the place where they had been found, about this angel he had said: "Hardly one from heaven, in that case."

He looked out the window, tried to think of a reasonable explanation.

In the schoolyard the flag was at half-mast.

Two psychologists had been present for the boys' questioning, since several of them were showing worrying signs of talking too lightheartedly about what they had witnessed, as if it were a film, something that had not happened in reality. And that was what one would most like to believe.

The problem was that the bloodstain technician to a certain extent corroborated what the boys had said.

The blood had run out in such a course, left traces in such places that the immediate impression was that it had been made by someone who was flying. Ceilings, beams. It was this he was now trying to explain. Explain away.

And would probably succeed in doing.

The boys' gym teacher was in intensive care with a serious concussion and would not be available for questioning until tomorrow at the earliest. He would probably not give them anything new.

Gunnar pressed his hands against his temples so that his eyes narrowed, glanced down at his notes.

"Angel… wings… the head exploded… the stiletto… trying to drown Frank, Frank was completely blue…  the kind of teeth like a lion… picked Frank up… "

And the only thing he managed to think was:

_ I should go away for a while. _

-

"Is that yours?" The conductor pointed to the bag on the luggage rack. You didn't see many of those these days. A real old-fashioned trunk.

The boy in the compartment nodded and held out his ticket. He punched it.

"Is someone meeting you at the other end?"

The boy shook his head. "It's not as heavy as it looks."

"No, of course. What have you got in there, if you don't mind my asking?

"A little bit of everything."

The conductor checked his watch, punched the air.

"It will be evening when we arrive, you know."

"Mhm."

"Are the boxes yours too?"

"Yeah."

"Look, I don't mean to prod, but how are you going to manage?"

"I'll get help. Later."

"I see. Right. Have a good trip, then."

"Thanks."

The conductor pulled the door to the compartment shut and walked over to the next one. The boy seemed like he knew what he was doing. If he had been sitting there with that much luggage he would hardly have looked so happy.

But then, it's probably different when you're young.

-

Frank traced his fingers silently on the top of the smooth trunk. Sunk a bit further into his seat. Made a small, loose fist. Enough that his knuckle would stick out enough to knock. And he tapped, tapped for the dots, drug his nail along for the dashes. 

…. --- .--  .. …  .. -

H O W  I S  I T

He didn’t have to wait for long. An almost immediate muffled tap and drag from the inside. 

\--- -.-  

O K

Frank sat quiet for a moment. Stared out the train window at the places passing quickly by. Another muffled message came through the box.

… -- .- .-.. .-..  -.- .. … …

S M A L L  K I S S

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was really fun to adapt. i'm so in love with this story by John Ajvide Lindqvist. if you haven't read the original book (or seen the film) you should!


End file.
